UC-NRLF 


B    3    SSD    7DE 


I 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

<• 

ALUMNUS 
BOOK  FUND 


OLIYE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


%  NotJfl. 


BY 


,    JOHN  CORDY  JEAFFRESON. 


AUTHOR    OF 


"ISABEL,"    "A    BOOK    ABOUT    DOCTORS,"   &c. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 
FKANKLIN    SQUARE. 

18  6  4. 


ALUMNUS 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  ¥OEK. 


BOOK  I. 

DREA31LAND :— BEING  PART  THE  FIRST  OF  MISS  TABITHA 
TREE'S  NOTE-BOOK. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

DECLARATIONS. 

/  We  lived  at  Farnham  Cobb — I,  and  my  grand- 
'  father,  and  Mrs.  Skettlc,  and  sister  Etty,  and 
about  two  luindred  and  fifty  neighbors  of  vari- 
ous degrees  of  social  humility. 

Farnham  Cobb  is  in  "the  corn  country."  It 
is  as  well  that  the  reader  should  bear  this  in 
mind,  as  to  do  so  may  prevent  confusion.  Six 
miles  on  the  southeast  of  Farnliam  Cobb  "the 
light  lands"  begin,  with  their  vast  fields  of  sand 
and  their  interminable  sweeps  of  sheep-walk ; 
and  beyond  "tlie  light  lands"  is  the  sea,  the 
wild  wide  sea,  creaming  the  shingle,  and  lash- 
ing the  white  headlands  of  the  coast ;  but  Farn- 
ham Cobb  lies  in  the  richest  vein  of  '"  the  corn 
country." 

My  story  begins  at  a  date  somewhere  about 
thirty  or  forty  years  since ;  but  all  the  same  for 
that,  its  opening  scenes  are  in  tlie  "good  old 
times;"  for  Farnham  Cobb,  when  I  lived  in  it, 
was  remote  from  the  bustle  of  modern  England. 
The  corn  country  was  more  than  a  hundred  and 
thirty  miles  from  London.  It  had  not  even 
heard  of  the  iron  roads  and  locomotives  of 
Northumbria ;  and  its  grand  turnpike  road,  at 
the  nearest  point  to  us,  did  not  come  within 
twelve  miles  of  my  grandfather's  gate. 

So  let  it  be  understood  that  we  are  in  "the 
good  old  time."  The  sleepy,  the  sunny,  the 
peaceful,  the  "rich  old  time" — full  of  abuses 
which  it  was  too  happy  to  fret  about,  full  of 
wickedness  that  it  was  too  ignorant — and,  par- 
don the  paradox,  too  innocent — to  be  shocked 
at,  full  of  tyranny  that  it  was  too  contented  to 
groan  under.  Yeomen  were  still  content  to  be 
yeomen,  and  lived  in  the  same  ample  kitchens 
with  their  farm-servants.  Young,  pale-faced 
curates  had  not  learned  to  slip  about  the  hedge- 
rows with  hands  crossed  over  their  breasts.  In- 
deed, there  was  scarce  a  curate  within  twenty 
miles  of  Farnham  Colib.  In  those  days  every 
benefice  had  its  priest,  and  almost  every  priest 
had  his  benefice.  Neitlier  in  cloth  nor  in  corn 
had  competition  come  into  fashion.  The  stocks 
and  the  whipping-post  stood  side  by  side  in  the 
crossing  of  the  village  ways,  but  they  had  not 
been  used  within  the  memory  of  man.  The 
stocks  and  the  whipping-post  were  chopped  up 
for  fire-wood  ten  years  since.  I  wonder  who 
took  tlic  trouble  to  demolish  them.  Doubtless 
those  whose  interest  it  was  to  make  away  with 
such  instruments  of  penal  correction. 


I  awoke  betimes  on  the  morning  at  which  this 
history  commences.  The  tall,  antique  clock  in 
the  hall  had  not  struck  five  when  I  was  down 
stairs  and  high  busy  in  the  inquest-room.  For 
it  was  the  grand  day  of  the  year  with  us.  It 
was  "Declarations,"  and  I  knew  that  at  ten 
o'clock  A.M.  I  should  have  to  present  my  class 
for  examination  in  the  inquest-room. 

Farnham  Cobb  College,  of  which  my  grand- 
father was  Gerent,  and  I,  Tabitha  Tree,  astat. 
twenty-Mvo,  was  Vice-gerent,  had  its  "Declara- 
tions'" on  the  last  Thursday  of  August  in  each 
year.  And  "Declarations"  caused  me,  and 
Mrs.  Skettle,  and  Etty  no  little  trouble.  Buns 
and  ale  had  to  be  provided  for  all  the  parishion- 
ers who  chose  to  present  themselves  at  the  cere- 
mony; and  these  cakes  and  ale  invariably  at- 
tracted at  least  fifty  of  our  poorer  neighbors — 
that  is  to  say,  all  the  women  of  the  village  who 
could  quit  their  cottages  or  gleaning,  and  all  the 
men  M'ho  could  slip  away  from  their  work.  A 
cold  collation  of  bread  and  meat  had  also  to  be 
set  before  the  twelve  members  of  my  class,  and 
the  inquest-room  had  to  be  "put  to  rights." 

This  last  task  was  no  trifling  one ;  for  on  all 
the  days  of  the  year  save  tlie  last  Thursday  in 
August  the  inquest-room  was  devoted  to  uses 
very  diiferent  from  that  of  "  Declarations."  We 
kept  our  stores  of  apples  and  potatoes  in  it.  We 
kept  our  gardening  tools,  and  garden  seeds,  and 
stuff  in  it.  Sometimes  we  stowed  away  a  load 
of  fagots  in  it.  It  may  therefore  be  easily  im- 
agined what  labor  it  was  to  me  to  get  the  apart- 
ment in  order. 

On  the  present  occasion,  however,  I,  with  the 
help  of  old  Isaac  Stoddart,  removed  the  lumber, 
swept  out  the  room,  dusted  the  desks,  and  knock- 
ed some  of  the  blackest  cobwebs  from  the  win- 
dows with  unusual  celerity.  At  breakfast  I  was 
able  to  assure  my  dear  grandfather  that  all  was 
ready. 

"The  College"  stands  three  hundred  j^ards 
from  the  nearest  habitation,  on  the  summit  of  a 
steep  hill.  Tlie  rough  by-road  that  runs  below 
the  wall  of  College  garden  is  the  principal  way 
from  Laughton,  in  the  heart  of  the  corn  country, 
to  Orford,  on  the  coast ;  but  not  five  carriages 
of  any  sort  are  dragged  up  it  per  day,  and  of  the 
few  travelers  who  make  the  ascent  not  one  in 
ten  gets  a  glimpse  of  the  College ;  for  the  old 
house,  with  its  red-brick  basement  and  plaster 
walls  topped  with  gables,  is  Iiidden  by  the  boughs 
of  many  elms  and  walnut-trees.  At  the  foot  of 
tlie  hill  lies  in  slovenly  tranquillitj-  the  village 


997 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


of  Farnliam  Col)b,  witli  its  church,  of  which  my 
graiulfutlicr  was  vicar. 

Tiic  antique  doclc  iu  tlic  hall  struck  ten.  Tlic 
tenth  stroke  had  not  ceased  to  vibrate  when  my 
grandfather  aj)i)eared  at  the  chief  entrance  of 
"the  College,"  arrayed  in  his  full  canonicals. 
A  i)icture  of  a  village  pastor  he  was.  Imagine 
him,  venerable  with  threescore  and  fourteen  years, 
erect  to  the  full  height  of  six  feet,  with  the  placid 
dignity  of  benevolence  and  gentle  nurture  on  his 
handsome  face — his  long  legs  clothed  in  breech- 
es, black  silk  stockings,  shoes  and  buckles ;  his 
silk  gown  caught  up  by  a.  merry  breeze  bent  on 
displaying  his  portly  figure,  covered  not  with  a 
cassock,  but  with  a  capacious  waistcoat,  from  the 
open  front  of  which  came  the  snowy  whiteness  of 
a  deep  linen  frill ;  his  head  uncovered,  its  white 
locks  being  drawn  back  into  a  tail !  Such  was 
my  grandfather  to  look  upon — the  Reverend  Sol- 
omon Easy.  As  he  descended  the  steps  from  the 
hall  door  and  crossed  the  grass-]3lot  on  his  way 
to  the  inquest-room  the  assembled  parishioners 
declared  their  parson  was  "  a  figure  of  a  man." 

In  another  minute  the  vicar  sat  on  his  official 
seat  in  the  inquest-room,  in  the  character  of  Ce- 
rent of  Farnham  Cobb  College. 

When  he  entered  I  sat  with  beating  heart  at 
the  lower  desk  in  the  room,  at  the  head  of  my 
class,  consisting  of  twelve  lads  from  the  village 
of  ages  varying  between  six  and  sixteen.  The 
Gerent  was  followed  into  the  place  of  assembly 
by  the  villagers  who  had  come  up  for  the  spec- 
tacle of  the  inquest.  The  clatter  of  their  feet 
was  subsiding  as  they  found  places  on  the  bench- 
es arranged  for  their  accommodation,  when  Mrs. 
Skettlc  made  her  appearance,  followed  by  Etty. 
Etty  was  then  almost  sixteen  years  old,  and  at 
the  apparition  of  her  lovely  face,  and  golden  hair, 
and  delicate  form  a  buzz  of  admiration  rose  from 
the  rustic  assembly. 

Glancing  timidly  around  her,  Etty  glided 
through  the  room  to  the  grandfather's  desk,  and 
took  her  station  at  his  elbow,  just  as  he  raised  in 
his  hand  a  huge  birch  rod,  that,  like  the  ceilings 
and  windows  of  the  inquest-room,  was  covered 
with  cobwebs.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  this 
mockery  of  scholastic  terrors  was  used  only  as  an 
emblem  of  authority,  not  as  an  instrument  of 
torture. 

"  Declarasne  ?"  cried  my  grandfather,  sternly, 
bringing  down, the  mouldy  twigs  with  a  crash  on 
his  desk. 

"  Declare,"  I  answered  audibly,  but  with  my 
heart  jumping  to  the  top  of  my  tliroat. 

"Declarasne?"  repeated  my  grandfather 
again,  with  increased  severity  of  intonation. 

"Declaro,  domine,"  I  responded. 

"  Vcni"  was  the  rejoinder,  made  in  a  milder 
voice,  the  Gerent  at  the  same  time  laying  down 
his  rod,  as  if  lie  relinquished  an  intention  to  use  it. 

At  tills  signal  1  rose  from  my  seat  and 
marched  uj)  the  middle  of  the  room,  between 
the  spectators  occu])ying  the  two  sets  of  benches, 
and  presenting  myself  before  my  grandfather 
made  a  humble  reverence.  Etty  had  something 
very  like  a  laugh  on  her  merry  ])ink  lips,  and 
the  folds  of  her  light  muslin  dress  were  agitated, 
a.s  if  she  had  a  hard  struggle  to  compress  her 
sense  of  amusement,  and  keep  it  within  the 
limits  of  her  own  consciousness  ;  but  I  was  very 
nervous.  My  grandfather's  desk  and  chair  were 
on  a  raised  dais,  and  resembled  in  every  respect  i 


the  old-fashioned  pedagogic  throne  of  a  provin- 
cial grannnar-school ;  and  as  he  looked  at  me 
over  the  rail  that  ran  along  the  front  of  the  of- 
ficial table,  and  then  peered  at  me  through  the 
little  balustrades  that  supported  the  rail,  my 
knees  trembled  beneath  me.  It  was  all  very  fine 
for  Etty  to  laugh.  She  had  no  resjjonsibility  on 
her  inexijcricnced  shoulders.  But  as  for  me, 
what  if  my  hob-nailed  pu])ils  broke  down  under 
the  searching  scrutiny  into  their  knowledge  on 
matters  theological  and  secular,  to  which  the 
Gerent  of  the  College  was  about  to  submit  them  ? 
So  nervous  and  apprehensive  was  I  of  calamity 
that  I  half  made  an  internal  resolve,  in  case  I 
came  well  out  of  the  next  hour's  ordeal,  I  would 
ever  afterward  give  my  class  two  hours'  instruc- 
tion on  the  evening  of  one  "  week  day"  in  each 
week,  in  addition  to  the  two  hoiu-s  of  Sunday 
tuition  to  which  my  labors,  as  Vice-gerent  of 
"the  College,"'  had  hitherto  been  confined. 

"It's  ten  minutes  past  ten  o'clock,"  said  my 
grandfather,  solemnly,  taking  his  luige  gold 
time-piece  from  his  Maistcoat  pocket  and  laying 
it  out  on  the  desk  before  him.  "  Let  us  proceed 
to  business.  Now,  senior  respondent,  what's 
your  name?" 

"Bill  Stackhouse,"  roared  out  the  senior  re- 
spondent, laudibly  endeavoring  to  make  him- 
self heard,  but  through  excess  of  zeal  and  the  in- 
convenience of  a  cracked  voice  causing  the  roof 
of  the  inquest-room  to  vibrate  from  the  sound. 

"  'William'  would  on  the  present  occasion  be 
more  suitable  than  'Bill,'''  observed  my  grand- 
father, solemnly. 

"Plaze,  yer  riv'rence,"  roared  out  the  senior 
respondent  —  louder  than  ever,  "that's  a  jest 
what  Miss  Tree  is  alius  a  tellin'  on  me.  But, 
yer  riv'rence,  I  can't  linlp  it,  an'  it's  not  my  fiiult 
in  the  lessest ;  fur  I'm  alius  called  'Bill,'  and 
my  remembrances  alius  were  a  short  one." 

"Well,  William,  well,  well,"  replied  my 
grandfather,  encouragingly,  "you  must  take 
jiains.  A  weak  memory  can  be  strengthened  by 
practice.  Exercise  it,  William  —  exercise  it. 
There's  nothing  like  exercise  for  overcoming 
weakness." 

"Ah,  yer  riv'rence,  you've  jest  got  the  right 
on  it  there.  That's  jest  what  I  a  found  out  with 
my  wind  ;  fur  though  I  ha'  got  a  short  remem- 
brances I  ha'  got  a  precious  good  wind.  I  be 
the  longest-winded  boy  i'  the  whole  parish.  Jest 
give  me  a  long  run,  with  a  few  hardies  and  a 
dike  ivory  bunder  yods  or  so,  and  I'll  run  any 
boy  my  own  size.  There  ain't  a  boy  the  whole 
country  round  dust  wager  me.  There  ain't  a 
boy's  wind  the  whole  country  roimd  can  touch 
my  wind.  That's  jest  the  trewth  on  it,  and  the 
whole  trewth  on  it.  But  when  I  fust  beginned 
to  run,  why,  stars  alive,  yer  riv'rence,  nowtiiing 
more  noi-  a  hop  skip  and  a  jump  would  blow  me 
wlioUy  and  out  right.  And  that's  jest  a  fact 
and  the  trewth,  yer  riv'rence." 

1  thought  that  boy  William  Stackhouse  would 
never  have  come  to  an  end.  It  was  exactly  like 
him.  As  intelligent  and  good  a  lad  as  ever 
breathed  on  all  other  questions,  he  was  impudent 
and  locjuacious  almost  to  insanity  on  the  subject 
of  his  "wind;"  and  here,  ])nsitively,  when  he 
ought  to  have  been  saying  who  gave  him  his 
name  of  William,  and  what  his  godfathers  and 
godmothers  theimed  for  him,  he  was  taking  uj) 
the  time  of  the  whole  College  and  all  the  spec- 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


5 


tators  with  roaring  out  this  ruhbish  about  the 
length  of  "Ills  wind."  I  longed  to  set  him 
down.  1  longed  to  tell  liim  that  he  ouglit  to 
know  his  jihiee  better  than  to  speak  in  that  way 
about  "his  wind"  in  the  jircsenee  of  his  elders, 
and  at  "Declarations'  of  all  imaginable  occa- 
sions. My  tongue  tingled  to  inform  him  that  I 
knew  several  boys  more  long-winded  than  lie 
w'as.  But  who  was  I  ?  I  had  no  right  to  speak. 
I  was  only  Viee-gprent ;  and  the  Gerent,  far 
from  calling  the  garrulous  lout  to  order,  only 
listened  to  him  courteously,  and  smiled  with 
every  appearance  of  satisfaction. 

I  was  crimson  with  vexation.  I  knew  that 
every  one  present,  save  my  grandfather,  thought 
the  boy  had  gone  mad.  I  knew,  though  I  dared 
not  for  the  life  of  me  look  at  her,  that  Etty  had 
turned  away  from  the  company,  and  was  staring 
fixedly  at  tlie  wall,  in  tlie  hojje  of  concealing  the 
I'isible  emotions  she  could  no  longer  control. 
But  what  could  I  do?  I  liad  not  made  the  boy's 
"wind."  It  was  no  fault  of  mine  tliat  it  was  a 
long  one.  It  was  no  fault  of  mine  that  he  would 
talk  about  it. 

Luckily  the  rest  of  the  ceremony  went  off  well. 
All  the  boys  knew  their  "pieces"  of  the  Cate- 
chism, of  "Martyr  History,"  and  of  the  multi- 
plication-table, and  the  tables  of  weights  and 
measures.  More  than  a  few  times,  indeed,  tiie 
Gerent  put  the  wrong  questions  to  the  wrong 
boys,  and  thereby  elicited,  among  other  equally 
remarkable  assertions,  the  somewhat  striking 
statements  that  three  barley-corns  went  to  a  fir- 
kin of  butter,  and  tliat  Pontius  Pilate  was  burn- 
ed in  Smithfield  by  Queen  Mary ;  but  these 
mistakes  were  my  grandfather's,  and  not  the 
boys'.  He  ought  to  have  put  the  right  ques- 
tions, and  then  he  would  have  had  in  return  the 
right  answers.  Luckily,  however,  the  absurdity 
of  the  replies  never  disturbed  my  dear  grandfa- 
ther's equanimity.  He  either  did  not  heed  them, 
or  did  not  care  to  show  that  he  heeded  them. 
So  all  went  comfortably. 

"It's  ten  minutes  past  eleven!"  at  lengtli  ex- 
claimed the  Gerent.  "The  hour  required  by 
the  Statutes  is  finished." 

Then  the  Gerent  rose  and  addressed  me  in  a 
Latiti  speech,  of  the  meaning  of  which  I  had 
not  the  faintest  glimmering,  save  when  there  oc- 
curred in  it  the  words  dominus  and  declaro,  de- 
cliirans  and  declaraliones,  and  other  variations 
of  declaro.  The  speech  at  an  end,  the  Gerent 
called  up  the  senior  respondent,  and  jjresented 
him  with  a  live-shilling  jiiece,  as  an  emolument 
due  to  his  dignity  as  Captain  of  the  College.  It 
was  all  my  doing  that  William  Stackhouse  had 
figured  as  senior  respondent.  Had  I  so  willed 
it,  little  Bob  Pratt,  with  the  curly  liair  and  brown 
eyes,  might  liave  had  the  part  and  .the  jjremium. 
But  a  sense  of  justice  had  induced  me  to  prefer 
that  big  lubberly  Stackhouse  to  my  pet  pu])il. 
And  then  the  boy  had  behaved  as  he  had  be- 
haved.    It  was  very  vexing. 

It  was,  however,  no  time  to  think  of  my  vex- 
ation. There  was  plenty  else  fur  me  to  be  busy 
about.  My  grandfather  declared  ' '  Declarations" 
at  an  end,  and  that  the  inquest-room  woukl  forth- 
with 1)0  closed  for  another  year.  Tlien  the  com- 
pany adjourned  to  the  grass-plot  in  front  of 
"the  College,"  and  were  entertained  with  har- 
vest-buns and  harvest-ale.  The  boys  of  my  class 
had  a  regular  dinner  set  out  for  them  on  a  table 


under  the  biggest  walnut-tree,  and  the  senior  re- 
s])ondent  carved.  It  was  a  ])ieasant  sight ;  tlie 
village  women  clacking  and  feasting  under  the 
sluulow  of  the  elms,  and  Mrs.  Skettle  quietly  go- 
ing on  with  her  knitting  as  she  sat  on  one  of  the 
College  ste])s  ;  Etty  springing  to  and  fro,  ligiit 
as  a  young  fawn  and  merry  as  music ;  and  my 
grandfather,  still  habited  in  his  si)lendid  canon- 
icals, stockings,  shoes,  and  buckles,  moving  about 
among  his  guests,  doing  the  honors  of  hosj)itali- 
ty  to  tliem  as  if  they  had  been  the  first  persons 
in  the  county. 

"Miss  Tree,"  said  the  senior  respondent  to 
me,  penitentially,  as  he  was  about  to  depart,  "  I 
du  hopee.  Miss  Tree,  as  how  you'll  see  fit  to  take 
my  'xcuses  and  grarnt  me  yer  pardin.  For  yer 
see,  I  couldner  holj)  it,  that  I  couldner.  In 
most  things  I  am  a  rcponsilile  lad  and  conform- 
able, and  do  my  duty  in  that  station  as  ha  been 
seen  fit ;  but  when  I  hear  any  motter  as  fare  to 
touch  on  my  wind,  I  must  hev  my  sai.  Yer 
know.  Miss  Tree — dontee?  Yer  see.  Miss  Tree, 
I  ha'n't  got  many  gifts  to  put  me  above  my  neigh- 
bors, but  I  have  got  a  long  wind,  and  you  know, 
Miss — dontee  ?     So  I  du  hopee  you'll  pardin." 

When  Vv''illiam  Stackhouse  tried  to  be  seduc- 
tive he  always  gave  this  pronunciation  to  "hope." 

"W^ell,  William,"  I  answered,  avoiding  the 
whole  question  of  wind,  "what  are  you  going  to 
do  with  the  five-shilling  piece?  have  you  made 
up  your  mind  ?"' 

"Oh,  Miss  Tree,"  the  awkward  lad  answered, 
a  glow  of  triumph  suffusing  his  big  lum]iy  feat- 
ures, ' '  I  am  right  glod — that  I  am — fur  the 
crown ;  fur  mother  was  sai-ing,  only  yesserday 
wor  six  weeks,  that  the  highmost  top  o'  liar  wish 
wor  to  fit  out  little  Tommy  in  a  new  set  o'  things. 
And  fur  a  new  set  o'  things  mother  shall  have 
the  crown.  That  she  shall.  Miss ;  and  I'll  shake 
hands  on  what  I  now  sai  wi'  any  man." 

I  was  delighted  with  the  awkward  earnestness 
of  my  senior  respondent. 

"Will  Stackhouse,"  I  said,  warmly,  laying 
my  right  hand  sharply  on  the  shoulder-piece  of 
his  fustian  jacket,  "you're  the  longest-winded 
boy  in  the  whole  country.  And  if  any  body 
says  you  are  not,  tell  him  that  Miss  Tree  sa\"s 
you  are." 

The  senior  respondent  pulled  his  forelock  in 
token  of  respect  to  me,  and  took  his  dcjiarture. 
By  four  o'clock  our  numerous  band  of  visitors 
had  sauntered  down  the  hill  into  the  village,  or 
hurried  off"  to  the  gleaning  fields ;  and  the  Vicar 
and  I,  and  ^Mrs.  Skettle  and  Etty,  were  left  by 
ourselves  in  the  College  garden. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AN   EVENING   IN   AUGUST. 

By  six  o'clock,  our  customary  hour  for  taking 
tea,  the  Rev.  Solomon  Easy  had  put  aside  his 
canonicals  and  his  silver  buckles,  and  was  taking 
his  ease  in  a  long,  loose,  gray  coat  and  slippers, 
the  knee-strings  of  his  breeches  being  untied  and 
pendent.  But  even  in  this  negligent  costume 
he  looked  well-dressed  and  fit  for  a  drawing- 
room.  It  was  a  characteristic  of  a  divine  of 
"the  old  school,"  that  he  always  had  the  air  of 
being  well-dressed. 

"The  College,"  as  our  old  house  was  called. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


consisted  of  an  enormous  and  lofty  hall,  paved 
with  square  slabs  of  black  and  white  marble,  a 
quaint  old  oak  staircase  extending  from  the  hall 
to  the  very  top  of  tlie  house,  several  large  and 
drauglity  ])assages  and  corridors,  a  dozen  quaint 
little  olci-fasliionod  rooms,  altogether  out  of  i)ro- 
portion  with  the  great  hall  and  huge  staircase 
and  capacious  passages  ;  and  a  multitude  of  at- 
tics, closets,  and  dark  dens,  into  which  we  none 
of  us  ever  cared  to  look.  Of  the  kitchens  and 
dairy  I  need  not  here  sjicak.  The  windows  were 
laced  with  vine-branches,  the  porch  was  covered 
with  roses,  wild  and  cultivated ;  and  the  exte- 
rior of  the  sturdy  brick  tower,  which  did  lis  serv- 
ice as  chimney,  was  hidden  in  ivy.  In  the  sum- 
mer montlis,  while  the  warmth  j^ermitted  us  to 
inhabit  so  airy  an  ajjartment,  we  used  to  make 
the  hall  our  living-room ;  but  in  the  colder  sea- 
sons we  retreated  to  one  or  another  of  the  small 
pigeon-hole  rooms  that  ojjcned  into  the  hall. 

Of  these  rooms  the  most  admired  was  "the 
tea-room,"  in  which  (whatever  might  be  the 
temj^erature)  we  always  took  tea  the  whole  year 
round.  Even  in  July  and  August,  when  we 
were  glad  to  sit  on  the  cool  chess-board  floor  of 
the  marble  liall,  we  were  wont  to  adjourn  to  the 
tea-room  every  evening  at  six  o'clock.  A  faded 
and  ill-furnished  little  room  it  was,  but  my  dear 
grandfather  liked  it.  It  contained  my  mother's 
portrait,  was  redolent  of  dried  rose-leaves,  and 
possessed  a  piano,  made  a  long  generation  be- 
fore the  great  Mr.  Broadwood  was  even  thought 
of.  My  grandfather  had  a  lively  respect  for  this 
piano,  believing  it  to  be  in  perfect  tune,  and  the 
prime  of  its  existence,  and  invariably  speaking 
of  it  as  "the  instrument." 

IMy  grandfather  looked  at  his  watch,  saw  thut 
the  time  was  ten  minutes  past  six,  rubbed  his 
slippers  uneasily  against  each  other,  and  then 
glancing  at  me,  who  occupied  the  sofa  of  the 
tea-room,  put  his  watch  back  without  saying  a 
word.  Mrs.  Skettle  was  counting  the  stitches  of 
her  knitting,  and  Etty  was  at  the  open  window 
talking  to  her  white  mice. 

Ten  minutes  more  ]iassed  on. 

"Jly  dear  Tibby,"  said  my  grandfather  at 
length,  with  an  air  of  reluctance,  "he  won't 
come  to-night." 

"Who  won't  come?"  I  answered,  pretending 
that  Julian  Gower  was  not  in  my  thoughts. 

"Julian  Gower,"  replied  my  grandfather. 
"It's  too  late  now.     So  let's  have  tea." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  Julian  won't  join  us  to-night. 
It's  his  uncle's  birtliday,  and  of  course  he  can't 
get  away ;  though  he  certainly  did  ])romise  to 
join  us." 

"I  am  sorpy  Jule  won't  come,"  put  in  Etty, 
leaving  the  window  and  depositing  her  mice  on 
the  table,  "for  I  want  to  S])cak  to  him." 
.  "Oh,  ladj^-bird,"  rejoined  my  grandfother, 
with  a  laugh,  "you  like  Jule,  do  you?  You 
can't  be  happy  without  him." 

"  IIap])y  without  liim?  Bless  you,  grandad, 
I  don't  want  him  to  make  me  ha])])y  ;  for  I  have 
got  luy  wliite  mice,  and  when  I'm  tired  of  them 
I've  got  you,  to  play  witli.  And  Jule  doesn't 
conic  to  sec  me.  He  is  Til)by's  friend.  Oh, 
you  shf)uld  hear,  my  dear  Mr.  Easy,  how  they  do 
talk  togctlier  all  about  the  earth's  formation,  and 
a  lot  of  other  long  things." 

My  grandfather  laughed  lightly.  Ilis  laugh- 
ter was  never  loud.     As  for  me,  a  flush  came  to 


my  face  as  I  glanced  at  Etty ;  but  the  artless  ex- 
l>rcssion  of  her  countenance  reassured  me  that 
she  had  oidy  Jut  me  with  a  random  shot. 

"I'm  just  nobody,  you  know.  Sir,"  the  child 
ran  on,  with  the  dashing  pertness  her  grand- 
father was  never  tired  of  listening  to.  "I'm  a 
little  nursery  chit,  allowed  to  live  down  stairs 
witli  my  elders,  because  Tibby  has  not  got  a 
nursery  to  ])ut  me  in.  Here  I  am.  Look  at 
me — sliort  white  frock  and  sash,  long  trowsers 
with  big  frills  round  the  anlcles,  pink  slippers, 
coral  necklace,  lots  of  curls.  Only  a  child, 
that's  all.  What  should  she  know  about  Jule, 
and  the  earth's  formation,  and  safety  lam])s,  and 
explosions?  There,  Tibby,  don't  keep  looking 
at  me  just  as  if  my  French  exercise  was  all  mis- 
takes, or  ni}-  sums  wouldn't  add  up,  or  I  had 
said  that  Cromwell  killed  Charles  the  Second. 
I  am  going  to  rout  you  all  up  to-night,  and  go 
ma^." 

Whenever  Etty  took  it  into  her  head  to  "go 
mad,"  as  she  termed  it,  my  grandfather  had  a 
rich  feast  of  fun.  So  at  the  threat  he  now 
brightened  uj-),  and  said,  •'  That's  it,  Etty,  go 
mad." 

"Not  till  after  tea,  Mr.  Easy;  I  must  have 
my  tea  in  peace  and  quietness,  with  lots  of  bread 
and  new  honey,  and  then  I'll  go  mad  with  a 
vengeance." 

My  grandfather  did  not  care  much  for  tea, 
though  he  took  i£  systematically  in  large  cujis 
every  morning,  and  little  round  cups  witliout 
handles  every  night,  out  of  respect  to  the  ladies 
of  his  establishment,  for  whom  he  regarded  the 
Chinese  beverage  as  especially  suited.  His  fa- 
vorite drink  was  mild  home-brew,  with  the  vari- 
ation on  festive  occasions  of  a  few  glasses  of  Ma- 
deira, or  that  fine  old  wine — port,  which  I  hear 
is  going  out  of  fashion,  and  will  in  the  course  of 
another  generation  be  obsolete.  "  Give  me  a 
bottle  of  port,''  I  have  often  heard  him  say, 
"when  I  have  a  friend  with  me;  and  give  me 
two  glasses  of  Madeira  wdien  I  am  alone.  You 
young  ladies  must  remain  faithful  to  your  tea-pot. 
You  have  your  complexions  to  think  about." 

Acting  on  this  principle,  as  soon  as  I  and  j\Irs. 
Skettle  had  had  our  tea,  and  Etty  had  devoured 
in  addition  to  her  cups  of  the  hot  fragrance  two 
prodigious  rounds  of  lirend  and  honey,  my  grand- 
father led  the  way  back  into  the  hall,  and  taking 
a  decanter  of  Madeira  from  the  side-board  sat 
down  at  the  great  table  to  enjoy  liimself. 

"Ah,  my  dears,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  pour- 
ing out  glass  No.  1,  "time  was  when  'Declara- 
tions' were  merry  days.  Poor  Dr.  Sayers  and 
poor  Ilany  Cotton  used  always  to  come  in  for  a 
glass  of  port  and  a  rubber.  But  they  are  both 
gone.  God  preserve  them !  What  fine  fellows 
of  the  'old  .school'  they  were!  I  have  never 
touched  a  card  since  poor  Harry  followed  tlie 
Doctor.  No,  I  am  wrong.  I  played  one  even- 
ing at  the  Laughton  club  with  the  young  man 
who  has  succeeded  to  Sayers's  practice.  But  it 
wouldn't  do,  my  dears.  The  young  man  would 
persist  in  talking  about  the  rules  of  the  game. 
When  I  was  a  young  man  I  never  presumed  to 
talk  about  the  rules  of  the  game ;  it  was  quite 
enough  for  me  to  observe  them.  I  was  glad  at 
knowing  that  he  was  all  Avrong,  and  did  not 
understand  even  the  A  B  C  of  what  he  professed 
to  be  so  familiar  with.  Of  course  I  did  not  dis- 
pute with  him.     I  held  my  tongue  and  thought 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


how  that  sort  of  thiiig  would  have  been  tolerated 
fifty  years  since.  I  hope  it  was  not  evil  in  me 
to  feel  a  satisfaction  at  the  young  man's  blunders 
— and  then  Mr.  What's-his-name  (I  forget  what 
the  young  man  is  called)  had  an  atrocious  habit 
of  smacking  down  his  winning  trumps  on  the  ta- 
ble, as  if  forsooth  the  strength  lay  in  himself  and 
not  in  the  cards  ;  and  then  he  swept  up  the  cards 
of  each  trick  as  if  forsooth  he  was  a  mighty  smart 
fellow  for  sweeping  np  the  cards  like  so  many 
marbles ;  and  whenever  he  won  with  the  fourth 
card,  of  course  he  put  down  his  card  and  took 
up  his  trick  so  that  no  one  could  see  what  the 
winning  card  was ;  and  if  he  could  not  see 
through  the  finesse  of  his  partner's  play,  sure  as 
the  deal  came  about  he  would  ask,  '  Why  did 
you  refuse  my  so-and-so?'  or,  'Why  did  you 
trump  my  so-and-so?'  or,  'Don't  you  think  you 
ought  to  have  led  through  the  so-and-so?'  Ah, 
my  dears,  he  was  a  terrible  young  man !  You 
may  rely  on  me,  whist  is  a  game  that  will  never 
be  i-eally  played  again  in  this  country.  You'll 
of  course  have  men  sit  down  at  tables  in  parties 
of  four,  and  deal  out  cards,  and  win  money,  and 
lose  temper,  and  ask  questions,  and  think  all  the 
time  that  tliey  are  playing  whist,  but  whist  it 
won't  be.  Let  the  '  old  school'  once  die  out, 
and  gentlemanly  high-minded  whist  will  be  an 
extinct  game.  No,  no,  I'll  never  touch  a  card 
again,  but  be  content  for  the  rest  of  my  days  to 
play  backgammon  with  Etty." 

"I  have  beaten  you  I  don't  know  how  many 
gammons  and  you  never  pay  one,"  popped  in 
Etty,  alluding  to  a  certain  accumulation  of  six- 
pences, which  she  maintained  her  grandpapa 
owed  her. 

"Then  come  here,  Miss  Saucy,  and  be  paid 
in  kisses,"  cried  the  debtor,  putting  down  his 
empty  glass,  and  after  dragging  Etty  to  his  lap 
proceeding  to  kiss  her. 

"Oh,  yer  riv'rence,"  cried  Etty,  imitating  the 
village  j)eople,  as  soon  as  she  had  struggled  from 
the  arms  of  her  captor,  "  before  you  kiss  a  pretty 
girl  like  me  you  shoidd  shave  yourself.  You 
are  so  rough — oh,  so  disgracefully  rough!" 

"Then  scratch  the  beauty  out  of  your  face, 
my  doll,  if  you  don't  like  my  wooing,"  cried  his 
reverence,  proudly,  filling  up  glass  No.  2  as  he 
looked  at  his  lovely  grandchild ;  "  for, "  he  added, 
singing  a  stanza  of  an  old  song : 

" '  Wliilat  KittyVs  eyes  are  soft  and  blue. 
To  Kitty  I'll  be  servant  tnte. 
Whilst  Kitty's  lips  are  fresh  as  May, 

And  fair  her  clieek  and  tender, 
I  vow  I'll  nothing  liave  to  say 

To  others  of  her  gender. 
But  should  her  beauty  take  to  flight— 

A  fig  for  honor's  jargon! — 
To  love  her  eyes  without  their  light 
Is  no  part  of  my  bargain. 
It  is  but  law  I  do  upliold, 
Love's  law  as  taught  by  Benjamin  Bold.'  " 
The  execrable  sentiments  of  Mr.  Benjamin 
Bold  had  so  very  ludicrous  an  effect,  coming 
from  the  lips  of  our  reverend  and  excellent  grand- 
father, that  Etty  and  I  Imrst  out  laughing,  and 
even  Mrs.  Skettle  seemed  inclined  to  cry  encore. 
"Ah,   my  children,"  said   my  graiidfiither, 
putting  down  glass  No.  2,  and  modulating  his 
voice  to  a  tone  of  pathetic  reminiscence,  "the 
first  time  I  heard  that  song  sung  poor  Jack  Ilar- 
greaves  was  the  singer.     What  a  noble  fellow 
Jack  was !     His  ship  was  lying  off  the  White 
Foreland— his  Majesty's  ship  The  Infernal,  as 


fine  a  man-of-war  as  over  peppered  a  French- 
man— and  Jatk  entertained  all  the  elite  of  the 
neighborliood  with  a  ball  on  board.  LadyCai'- 
oline  Glint  was  there — do  you  happen  ever  to 
have  met  Lady  Caroline,  my  dear  Tibby?" 

"No,  oh  dear,  no,  grandpajja,"  I  answered, 
respectfully. 

"Why,  lioio  should  she  ever  have  met  Lady 
Caroline  Glint?"  popped  in  Etty,  with  her  cus- 
tomary confidence.  ''Lady  Caroline  Glint  died 
when  you  were  a  young  man,  and  Tibby  is  only 
six  years  older  than  I  am.  How  can  you  talk 
such  nonsense?''' 

"Ah,"  returned  my  grandfather,  mildly,  fold- 
ing his  white  hands  slowly  over  each  other,  "is 
it  so  indeed?  How  quickly  time  flies!  How 
very  quickly !" 

A  minute's  silence. 

The  pause  broken  by  Etty  striking  in  with — 
"Now,  Mr.  Easy,  Jack  be  nimble.  Jack  be 
quick,  Jack  jump  over  the  candlestick !      No 
waiting  to  consider — answer  me — what's  Dec- 
larations?" 

"  An  inquest,  to  be  sure,  you  little  simpleton." 
"And  what's  an  inquest?" 
"An  examination." 

' '  Well,  but  who  set  Declarations  going  ?  How 
did  they  come  about  ?  What's  the  good  of  tak- 
ing the  potatoes  and  kindling  out  of  the  inquest- 
room  once  a  year  just  to  hear  twelve  boys  say 
their  catechism  and  tables,  when  you  might  just 
as  well  have  them  up  here  into  the  hall?" 

' '  The  statutes — the  rules  of  the  College — re- 
quire that  the  examination  should  take  place  in 
the  inquest-room." 

"Who  made  the  rules?" 
' '  They  were  settled  at  the  foundation. " 
"Who  made  the  foundation?" 
"Why,"  replied  the  grandfather,  raising  his 
voice  in  consternation  at  this  torrent  of  inter- 
rogatories, "the  founder,  to  be  sure." 
"And  who  was  the  founder?" 
"The   iDious   and   venerable   Lady  Arabella 
Howard,  who,  dying  at  the  age  of  ninety-three, 
bequeathed  her  large  landed  estates  to  trustees 
for  the  support  and  instniction  of  the  poor  of 
this  vicinity." 

"Oh !  then  the  founder  was  an  old  woman  ?" 
"Yes,  an  old  woman." 

"Well,  now!"  exclaimed  Etty,  coming  to  a 
triumphant  conclusion,  "that's  exactly  what  I 
supposed  before  I  began  to  ask  my  questions." 
We  were  all  convulsed  with  laughter. 
"There!"  cried  Etty;  "now  I  have  'gone 
mad'  with  a  vengeance,  haven't  I?  Go  on 
laughing,  Mr.  Easy,  for  two  minutes  longer, 
and  then  I'll  be  down  stairs  once  more,  and 
have  a  hit  at  backgammon  with  you." 

As  she  said  these  last  words  she  skipped  light- 
ly up  the  oak  staircase. 

My  grandfather's  laughter  ceased  as  soon  as 
he  had  lost  sight  of  the  child's  white  petticoats 
from  the  dark  gallery ;  and  moving  his  head,  so 
that  his  lips  were  close  to  my  ear,  he  said,  in  a 
confidential  tone,  not  much  above  a  whisper, 
"My  dear  Tibby,  your  little  sister,  when  slie 
grows  uj>,  will  be  a  very  remarkable  woman — a 
iMrs.  Chapone,  or  a  Miss  Porter.  Of  course  she 
won't  write  a  book.  She  won't  disgrace  the 
family  by  doing  any  thing  that  does  not  become 
the  delicacy  of  woman.  But  she  will  be  a  very 
remarkable  woman — she'll  be  heard  of.  * 


8 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


I  left  my  grandfuther  and  Etty  at  the  back- 
gammon-board, having  first  lighted  candles  for 
their  aceommodation.'  That  housewifely  duty 
done,  I  went  out  into  the  garden  for  a  quiet 
stroll  in  the  heceh  avenue,  from  the  end  of  which 
I  could  watch  the  setting  sun,  and  survey  the 
valley  sinking  to  rest. 

Solitude,  however,  was  not  permitted  me. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Skettle  behind  me. 

Mrs.  Skcttle  so  seldom  spoke  that  I  turned 
roimd  with  additional  surprise — surprise  at  be- 
ing addressed  by  any  one,  and  surprise  at  being 
addressed  by  her. 

At  the  time  of  these  occurrences  I  took  life  as 
it  came,  without  inquiring  why  it  came  in  one 
way  rather  tlinn  another.  It  had  never  occurred 
to  me  to  make  investigations  into  my  own  self- 
consciousness,  and  bother  myself  with  trying  to 
find  out  why  "I"  was  "I."  Still  less  had  I 
ever  cared  to  ask  why  Mrs.  "Skettle"  was  Mrs. 
"Skettle."  Enough  for  me  that  she  was  in  the 
house,  ready  to  do  a  great  deal  of  odd  work  in  a 
very  unobtrusive  manner,  and  to  say  a  very  little 
indeed  in  a  manner  and  under  circumstances 
calculated  to  make  that  little  eminently  impress- 
ive. We  all  are  too  apt  to  miss  seeing  the  mar- 
vels of  life  by  neglecting  to  examine  the  ground 
at  our  feet.  So  it  was  with  Mrs.  Skettle  and 
my  knowledge  of  her.  Although  I  broke  daily 
bread  with  her,  I  knew  very  little  of  her,  for  the 
simple  reason  tliat  I  was  too  self-absorbed  to  be 
curious  about  an  old  lady  with  a  bronze  face, 
till  attractive  features,  green-glass  spectacles,  and 
dusty  raiment. 

She  was  somehow  or  other  a  friend  of  the  fam- 
ily. She  had  nursed  my  mother  in  her  dying 
illness,  when  I  was  only  seven  years  old,  and 
Etty  was  a  babe  in  arms.  She  hardly  ever  open- 
ed her  lips  to  speak.  She  was  one  of  the  per- 
manent inmates  of  "the  College."  She  took 
the  house-linen  and  the  crockery  under  her  es- 
pecial supervision.  She  liked  assisting  me  in  the 
large  kitchen  and  dairy,  where  it  was  my  daily 
use  to  work  for  the  creature  wants  of  "the  Col- 
lege." She  expected  to  be  asked,  out  of  court- 
esy, her  opinion  on  the  arrangements  for  each 
day's  dinner ;  and  out  of  courtesy  she  alwaj's  de- 
clined giving  a  decided  ojtinion.  Slie  every  day 
dusted  the  whole  of  the  house  from  top  to  bot- 
tom, but  always  took  great  pains  that  no  eye 
sliould  see  her.  Her  mode  of  achieving  this  ob- 
ject was  singular.  Whenever  she  was  disturb- 
ed in  her  dusting  ojjerations — on  staircase  or 
gallery,  chamber  or  tea-i-oom,  or  hall — she  sat 
down,  slipped  her  duster  in  her  pocket  as  though 
it  were  a  handkercliief,  took  out  her  knitting, 
and  played  awaj-  wilii  her  pins  till  the  intruder 
had  passed  away.  In  consequence  of  this  liabit 
of  hers,  I  have  caught  her  knitting  in  some  most 
extraordinary  places — on  tlie  top  of  high  ward- 
robes, and  in  the  middle  of  passages,  where  she 
had  only  the  boards  or  i)ricks  to  sit  upon.  The 
explanation  of  this  most  eccentric  ancl  rather  ob- 
jectionable line  of  conduct  was  this :  She  had 
been  so  habituated  to  housework  in  early  life 
that  she  could  not  be  comfortable  without  it. 
She  therefore  indulged  her  menial  propensities, 
taking,  however,  all  possible  jirecaution  they 
should  not  bring  discredit  on  "the  College," 
which  slie  had  some  vague  n<ition  would  suffer 
disgrace  if  she  dusted  furniture  otherwise  than 
furtively. 


Thus  much  I  know  of  Mrs.  Skettle.  But  it 
was  not  till  some  few  years  since,  when  I  was 
collecting  certain  minute  particulars  for  my  note- 
book, that  I  learned  she  was  my  grandmother's 
distant  cousin;  that  in  a  remote  village  of  "the 
corn  country"  she  had  exercised  the  imperfectly 
dishonorable  vocation  of  a  stay-maker ;  that,  fail- 
ing to  gain  a  livelihood  as  a  manufacturer  of  cor- 
settes,  she  had  officiated  in  tlie  hundred  of  Nutting 
as  a  monthly  nurse.  Fine-hearted  but  mistaken 
old  body  !  she  accepted  gratefully  the  shelter  my 
dear  grandfather  afforded  her,  on  condition  that 
he  kept  her  history  and  relationship  unknown  to 
me  and  my  sister.  On  no  other  condition  would 
she  consent  to  take  board  and  bed  in  "the  Col- 
lege." My  grandfather,  as  I  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  learn,  endeavored  to  argue  her  out  of 
her  resolution,  but  could  not  succeed.  No,  she 
would  not  consent  that  I  and  Etty  should  be  an- 
noyed by  learning  that  she  was  an  old  nurse  and 
stay-maker,  and  yet,  for  all  that,  a  relation. 
"No,  Mr.  Easy,"  she  said,  definitively,  "let 
me  have  my  way,  or  I'll  go  out  into  the  world 
and  officiate  for  myself.  The  girls  sha'n't  know 
I'm  their  kin.     I  won't  darken  their  light." 

"  Your  grandpa  is  quite  right,  my  dear,"  ob- 
served Mrs.  Skettle,  unconscious  of  my  surprise, 
and  revealing  without  prelude  the  subject  of  her 
tlioughts.  "Etty  is  a  wonderful  child  —  and 
she'll  rise  in  life.     That  she  will." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so,  Mrs.  Skettle?"  I  re- 
joined. 

"Think  it,  mj^dear?"  replied  Mrs.  Skettle,  in 
a  confidential  and  thready,  but  far  from  unpleas- 
ant voice.  "Think  it,  my  dear?  I  knoio  it. 
And  if  I  didn't  know  it,  your  grandpa  does, 
which  is  much  better.  Mr.  Easy  is  the  best  blood 
in  these  parts,  and  he  is  a  very  learned  graduate 
as  well  as  a  divine,  and  therefore  wliatever  he 
says  he  knows  must  of  course  come  true.  She'll 
rise,  no  doubt  o'  that.  And  when  she  do  rise, 
and  I'm  lying  in  my  grave  with  only  a  small 
head-stone  at  the  top  of  me,  as  is  becoming  in  a 
lone  woman  of  a  decent  stock,  why  she'll  have  in 
some  small  way  and  degree  to  thank  me  for  that 
she  has  so  risen." 

"Thank  yon,  INIrs.  Skettle?"  I  inquired,  re- 
peating the  old  lady's  words  in  surprise. 

"Ay,  my  clear,  I  did  for  her  frcmi  the  first. 
You're  now  a  growed  M'oman,  Miss  Tree,  and  it 
won't  disturb  your  eddication  or  put  a  blush 
ujjon  your  cheek  to  talk  to  you  as  a  woman.  I 
did  it,  my  dear.  I  was  by  your  blessed  ma's  side 
when  Etty  was  born,  and  I  did  for  the  little  dar- 
ling from  the  Aery  first.  And  it's  just  having  a 
wise  friend  to  look  after  your  true  interests  when 
you  are  first  born,  my  dear,  that  makes  the  dif- 
ference whether  you  go  up  or  go  down.  There 
v,as  nothmg  left  undone  for  Etty  that  mortal 
])ains  could  do.  A  mackerel  your  poor  dear  ma 
longed  for,  and  a  mackerel  I  got  her,  though  I 
had  to  send  Mr.  Easy's  man  full  jiost  otf  to  Ilythe 
to  fetch  it,  and  had  to  pay  a  crown-j>iecc  for  it, 
in  that  mackerels  were  not  then  in  season.  True 
it  was  the  fish  come  too  late  for  your  ma,  for 
Etty  was  born  or  ever  the  man  got  back  from 
Ilythe.  But  said  I,  'Do  what  Natur  tells  you 
is  right ;'  and  so  we  had  the  fish  cooked,  and  we 
give  just  a  morsel  of  it  to  Etty,  babe  though  slue 
was,  and  notwithstanding  she  had  not  been  three 
hom-s  born.  Dr.  Sayers  objurgated  to  my  wish, 
and  Mr.  Easy  half  gave  in  to  the  doctor's  objur- 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


gations,  but  I  had  my  way,  holdin<:;  on  fast  to 
the  old  Bible  rule,  '  Do  what  Natiir  tells  you  is 
right. '"^ 

Mrs.  Skettle  paused,  but  she  sjjcedily  resumed 
the  narrative  of  lier  j^rounds  for  exultation. 

"Then,  my  dear,  long  ere  ever  the  poor  child 
could  be  taken  down  stairs  I  took  her  up  to  the 
Tcry  toj)  of  '  the  College  ;'  and  it  isn't,  Miss  Tree, 
every  child  who  has  the  chance  of  being  born'in 
such  a  high  house  as  the  College,  which,  count- 
ing ground-floor  and  watch-tower  attic,  has  five 
rooms  one  atop  of  another.  Mind  me,  my  dear, 
if  ever  you  have  a  baby,  have  her  took  np  stairs 
afore  ever  you  let  it  be  carried  n  step  down  ;  for 
if  you  don't  so  mind,  that  babe — be  it  boy  or  be 
"it  girl — will  never  rise  in  life.  Poor  folks  know 
this,  and  what  the  simple  know  surely  the  gentle 
ought  not  to  be  ignorant  of.  Bless  you,  there 
is  not  a  poor  woman  the  country  round,  wliose 
child  is  born  in  a  cottage-chamber,  with  no  room 
nor  loft  above,  but  gives  it  a  chance  of  rising  by 
clambering  with  it  in  her  arms  on  to  the  top  of 
two  chairs  and  a  set  of  drores  built  np  to  make- 
believe  a  staircase.  And  a  poor  chance  that  is, 
compared  with  what  one  gets  in  a  house  like  the 
College." 

"And  did  no  one  take  the  same  pains  for  me  ?" 
I  asked,  when  ]\Irs.  Skettle  came  to  a  pause.  I 
put  the  question  eagerly  and  despondingly ;  for 
though  I  did  not  believe  in  the  superstition,  I  did 
not  like  that  it  should  stand  against  my  interests. 

"Well,  my  dear,  no  one  did,  and  that's  a 
truth.  I  was  not  by  when  yon  were  born,  or 
you'd  have  been  as  well  done  by  as  Etty.  But 
you  were  born  in  foreign  parts — at  Portsmouth, 
where  your  pa's  I'cgiment  was ;  and  your  poor 
ma  told  me  that  you  were  cared  for  after  the 
fashion  of  those  parts ;  but  there's  no  need  for 
you  to  be  disheartened,  for  it's  more  than  likely 
that  what  holds  good  for  these  parts  does  not 
hold  for  those  ))arts.  But  you  ask  the  question, 
and  the  question  I  answer.  You  were  not  done 
by  after  my  notions.  Yoir  weren't  raised — and 
you  had  the  nails  of  your  fingers  cut  before  j'ou 
were  six  months  old.  Now  if  Etty,  seeing  that 
she  was  born  in  these  parts,  had  had  her  nails 
shortened  with  knife  or  scissors  afore  she  was  six 
months  old,  she'd  have  been  light-fingered,  lady 
though  she  be,  and  have  the  best  blood  of  the 
country  in  her  veins." 

"You  must  remember  mamma  well,  Mrs. 
Skettle?"  I  inquired,  with  the  curiosity  of  filial 
affection,  and  an  inclination  to  turn  the  conver- 
sation from  my  early  misfortunes  and  Etty's  su- 
perior advantages. 

"Weill  I  should  think  I  do  remember  her 
■well !  Poor  gentle  soul!"  returned  ]\Irs.  Skettle, 
sighing.  "Slie  died  in  my  arms.  Surely  you 
remember  her?" 

"I  tr3%  but  I  can't.  You  remember  how 
young  I  was  when  she  died — only  seven  years 
old.  Sometimes  I  think  I  can  recall  her  feat- 
ures ;  but  then  I  go  to  her  picture  in  the  tea- 
room, and  look  at  that,  and  it  contradicts  all  iny 
recollections.  I  almost  wisli  we  hadn't  that  por- 
trait.    Yet  it  seems  \\icked  to  say  so." 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  don't  wish  to  speak  against 
the  picter,  for  it  cost  five  golden  guineas,  as  Mr. 
Easy  once  told  me,  and  it's  handsome  furnitur ; 
but  regarding  it  as  a  draught  of  your  ma,  a 
pepper-box  is  more  like  a  flour-hutch  than  that 
take-off  is  like  Annette  Tree,  born  Easy." 


"Was  my  father  a  good  man,  Mrs.  Skettle?" 
I  asked. 

"He  was  a  military  man,  my  dear,"  answered       j 
Mrs.  Skettle,  avoiding  the  question.  ' 

"Tell  me  something  about  him." 

"It  isn't  much  I  know  about  him,  dear,"  the 
old  lady  answered.  "  I  only  saw  him  twice  in 
all  his  days,  and  those  two  times  were  after  din- 
ner, when  he,  of  course,  couldn't  talk  much — 
bein'  as  he  was  of  the  military  jjrofession." 

"Did  he  and  mamma  live  together  haijjiily  ?" 

"Oh  yes;  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Skettle, 
huskily;  "why  shouldn't  they  live  happily  to- 
gether? I  never  heard  any  harm  of  him.  He 
married  for  love,  which  I  always  think  better  of 
a  man  for.  He  drank  deep,  there's  no  doubt ; 
but  being  of  the  military  profession.hc  was  ex- 
pected to  drink  deep  ;  and  he  spent  all  your  dear 
ma's  fortune,  and  a  good  deal  besides,  but  that, 
of  course,  though  a  cause  of  trouble,  was  excus- 
able in  a  gentleman  of  the  military  profession. 
And  he  was  killed  in  a  duel — more  shame  on  the 
man  who  shot  him !" 

Here  were  revelations.  As  Mrs.  Skettle  came 
to  a  close  of  the  last  sentence  we  were  at  the 
far  end  of  the  beech  avenue.  I  did  not  care  for 
the  minute  to  ask  any  more  questions,  but  sat 
down  on  a  log  chair,  that  was  the  extreme  limit 
of  the  walk,  and  buried  my  face  in  my  hands, 
recognizing  to  myself  that  Mrs.  Skettle's  con- 
cluding words  had  frightened  me.  I  was  soon 
calm  and  self-possessed  again,  and  looked  up  to 
continue  my  ^interrogatories,  but  Mrs.  Skettle 
was  no  longer  by  my  side.  She  had  left  me  as 
noiselessly  and  s.uddenly  as  she  had  come  upon 
me. 

I  took  two- or  three  more  turns  in  the  avenue, 
and  having  stood  still  for  five  minutes  looking 
at  the  quiet  valley,  just  visible  in  the  starlight, 
I  retraced  my  steps  down  the  blackness  of  the 
garden  "walk,  and  re-entei"ed  the  College. 

Etty  had  already  gone  to  bed.  Mrs.  Skettle 
also  had  retired  to  rest ;  and  my  grandfather 
was  alone  in  the  hall  smoking  his  pipe.  He 
kissed  me,  and  called  me  his  "little  ghost."  He 
often  called  me  by  that  name,  but  it  had  never 
on  any  previous  occasion  seemed,  in  my  opin- 
ion, ai)plicable  to  me. 

"I  declare,  grandfather,  I  feel  like  a  ghost," 
I  answered. 

"You  look  like  one,"  he  said;  "you  are 
whiter  than  ever.     Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"In  the  garden,  with  Jlrs.  Skettle." 

"Then  you've  been  silent  and  moping,  my 
little  ghost." 

"No.     Mrs.  Skettle  has  been  very  talkative." 

"I  did  not  know  she  ever  talked,"  responded 
Mr.  Easy,  between  the  whift's  of  his  jiipe. 

I  did  not  tell  him  what  our  conversation  had 
been  about ;  but  lighting  my  candle,  I  bade  him 
good-niglit,  and  went  up  the  old  oak  staircase. 

Etty's  bedroom  was  next  to  mine,  and  oiiened 
into  the  same  galler3%  Before  saying  my  jirayers 
I  crept  into  her  room  and  watched  hor  —  fast 
aslee])  and  snrpassingl}'  beautiful.  She  had 
dressed  her  hair  for  the  night  carelessly,  and 
the  golden  tresses,  unfastened  by  the  movement 
of  her  head  on  the  pillow  ere  she  fell  asleep, 
curled  like  a  cloud  round  her  face. 

"Darling,"  I  whispered,  "I  hope  vou'll  rise 
in  life!" 

Then  I  went  to  mv  own  r'ooni.  and  in  due 


10 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


course  committed  myself  to  sleep,  my  last  mo- 
mcTits  of  cnnscioiisiu's.s  l)eing  divided  between 
thoughts  of  Julian  Gmver  and  tlie  sound  of  my 
grandfathei-'s  footstei)s  in  the  gallery  as  he  pro- 
ceeded to  his  bedro<jm. 

No  one  had  locked  the  College  gates  or  bolt- 
ed the  College  doors.  In  the  "corn  country" 
there  was  no  need  to  secure  a  bolt  or  turn  a  lock. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    HARVEST    FIELD. 

The  next  day  I  accompanied  my  grandfather 
to  Sandhill.  At  Farnham  Cobb  early  hours 
were  in  fashion :  we  breakfasted  in  the  summer 
time  at  seven  or  eight  o'clock  at  the  latest,  and 
often  dined  at  twelve  o'clock,  though  two  o'clock 
was  our  more  usual  dinner  hour.  When  it  was 
arranged  to  have  the  principal  repast  of  the  day 
at  twelve,  Mr.  Easy  did  not  go  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  College  grounds  between  breakfast  and 
dinner,  but  spent  the  morning  in  the  garden, 
trimming  the  fences ;  or  in  the  house,  touching 
up  an  old  sermon  for  the  ensuing  Sunday,  or 
reading  such  ephemeral  literature  as  the  Coun- 
ty Paper,  or  the  last  number  of  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine.  It  was  thus  he  occupied  himself 
during  the  fore-part  of  the  day  now  recalled, 
and  consequently  he  was  full  of  vigor  for  the 
harvest  field  in  the  following  afternoon. 

The  ingathering  of  autumn's  wealth  made  a 
lively  imj)ression  on  my  childish  mind.  As  a 
little  one  I  remember  causing  my  nurse  a  laugh 
by  exclaiming,  "I  know  I  was  born  in  the  au- 
tumn, for  I  remember  being  taken  into  the  har- 
vest field  the  day  after  I  was  born."  The  fact 
was,  of  all  my  early  reminiscences,  that  of  har- 
vest-field enjoyment  was  the  most  powerful  and 
enduring  ;  it  was  a  commencement,  distinct  and 
permanent,  of  consciousness,  if  not  of  life.  llap- 
py  tlie  children  whose  most  lively  recollections 
of  dawning  existence  have  no  less  agreeable  as- 
sociations than  the  warmth,  the  drowsy  luxury, 
and  tr.anquil  cheerfulness  of  an  English  harvest ! 

"  Soho,  soho,  little  horse!"  exclaimed  my 
grandfather,  in  a  soothing  and  patronizing  tone, 
as  he  took  the  reins  from  the  hands  of  Isaac 
Stoddart,  and  swayed  liimself  into  the  pony- 
gig- 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  horse  in  ques- 
tion l)eing  a  little  one,  for  the  sturdy  black  Shet- 
land, which  constituted  the  whole  of  my  grand- 
father's "College"  stud,  did  not  exceed  eleven 
hands  in  height ;  and  though  it  was  ambitious 
of  magnitude,  it  was  powerless  by  any  amount 
of  eating  and  laziness  to  add  much  to  its  stat- 
ure ;  I  am,  however,  liound  to  say  that  ils  stren- 
uous cft'orts  in  the  direction  of  self-development 
made  every  month  a  percejitiblc  addition  to  its 
girth.  In  strong  contrast  to  our  fat  pony  was 
the  lean  gig,  wliich  was  tlic  only  carriage,  be- 
sides a  small  tumbril  and  a  v.'lie'd-barrow,  attacli- 
ed  to  "  tlie  College."  Jt  was  the  most  shadowy, 
most  scrambling,  high(!St- wheeled,  and  most  at- 
tenuated little  gig  that  mortal  ingenuity  ever 
contrived.  Every  element  of  discomfort,  incon- 
venience, and  disability  that  a  carriage  could 
suffer  under  was  jn-csent  in  that  noisy,  scram- 
bling vehicle.  Tlie  seat-back  was  very  high, 
but  it  was  so  composed  of  long  spokes,  with  a 


complication  of  knobs  and  protuberances  adorn- 
ing their  length,  that  it  was  iin])ossible  for  a 
passenger  to  recline  \\\mn  tlieni  without  losing 
skin.  The  wheels  were  very  high,  and  rattled 
like  a  pair  of  bird-scarers.  The  step,  which 
served  as  a  resting-place  for  the  ascending  pas- 
senger between  the  ground  find  the  foot-board, 
was  almost  a  yard  from  the  earth's  surface.  The 
dash-board  was  only  three  inches  and  a  half  in 
altitude ;  and  there  was  no  box  under  the  seat 
for  the  reception  of  parcels,  so  that  when  we 
conveyed  a  basket  of  farm-produce  from  Sand- 
hill to  "the  College,"  we  had  to  jilace  it  on  the 
foot-board  before  us,  to  the  sore  distress  of  our 
legs.  At  this  date  I  look  back  to  that  crazy  old 
gig  with  unsealed  eyes ;  but  at  the  time  of  which* 
I  now  write  it  appeared  to  me,  as  it  did  to  Etty 
and  my  dear  grandfather,  a  faultless  jnece  of 
mechanism.  Etty  and  I  "  took  turns"  in  "  hav- 
ing rides."  We  called  a  period  of  locomotion 
in  the  pony-gig  a  "ride,"  and  not  a  "drive," 
and  we  regarded  such  period  of  locomotion  as 
the  prime  of  ti-eats.  So  highly  did  we  prize  the 
pleasure  of  "a  ride,"  we  kept  the  most  exact 
account  of  how  many  rides  we  respectively  had, 
and  were  at  great  pains  not  to  intrench  on  each 
other's  proper  share  of  the  coveted  enjoyment. 

' '  Soho,  little  horse  ! "  cried  my  grandfather, 
letting  himself  down  in  the  seat  of  the  gig,  and 
almost  burying  me  in  the  folds  of  his  coat's- 
skirt — "  that'll  do,  Isaac  :  now,  let  go  his  head ; 
be  nimble,  and  run  and  open  the  gate." 

To  be  nimble  and  to  run  poor  Isaac  Stoddart 
could  not.  He  was  our  wooden-legged  garden- 
er; and  the  wooden  leg  which  replaced  his  na- 
tive one  of  flesh,  removed  by  a  surgeon's  knife, 
obviated  all  attempts  on  his  part  at  .speed.  Stran- 
gers used  to  find  jjleasure  in  watching  Isaac  trim 
the  vines,  for  he  had  a  foot  specially  fashioned 
out  of  wood  in  such  a  manner  that  it  could  be 
fixed  securely  to  the  spokes  of  our  garden  lad- 
ders. Of  course  Isaac's  wooden  leg  greatly  in- 
terfered with  his  usefulness,  but  he  answered  our 
purpose.  "You  see,  Tibby,"  said  my  grandfa- 
ther, "he  couldn't  do  every  one's  work,  so  he 
must  even  do  ours."  On  the  same  principle 
Isaac  Stoddart's  wife  (comparatively  incapaci- 
tated by  drojjsy,  palsy,  and  asthma)  was  our 
cook ;  and  Isaac  Stoddart's  daughter  (whose 
light  eye  had  been  put  out  in  early  infancy  by 
the  point  of  a  gimlet)  was  our  house-maid.  An 
applicant  for  a  vacant  place  in  my  grandfather's 
"  employ"  always  had  a  recommendation  in  any 
]jhysical  disqualification  he  might  suffer  under. 
All  the  country  round  it  came  to  be  understood 
that  the  daft,  the  paralytic,  and  the  afflicted  were 
my  grandfather's  aiipropriate  servitors.  And  he 
encouraged  this  view  of  the  case — not  on  the 
grounds  of  benevolence,  but  by  reference  to  the 
fitness  of  things.  "  Some  peojile,"  he  would  say, 
"  want  their  work  done  quickly  and  well ;  now  I 
don't  sec  the  good  of  having  my  work  done  either 
quickly  or  well.  So  long  as  it  is  done  by  the  end 
of  the'ycar,  what's  the  use  of  fretting  as  to  how 
long  it"  takes;  and  so  long  as  it  is  done,  what's 
the  good  of  worrying  about  the  jiarticular  way 
in  which  it  is  done  ?  After  all,  your  crops  can 
but  be  'got  in,'  and  a  trench  of  celery,  whether 
it  is  trenched  by  a  perfect  and  able-bodied  man 
or  by  a  wooden-legged  man,  is,  after  all,  oiilv  a 
trench  of  celery,  and  nothing  more  and  nothing 
less.     No  amount  of  dexterity  can   convert  a 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


11 


trench  of  celery  into  an  a]iricot-trcc.  And  as 
for  expense! — Goodness  gracious,  Tibby,  with 
the  few  people  I  have  about  me,  it  wonld  not 
make  the  difference  of  ten  guineas  a  year  ;  anil 
what  are  ten  guineas  compared  with  the  enor- 
mous nnmber  of  guineas  I  have  spent  in  the 
whole  course  of  my  life?  Guineas!  ten  guineas  ! 
wliat  difference  would  the  subtraction  or  the  ad- 
dition of  ten  gnineas  make  to  the  prodigious 
quantity  of  money  I  have  played  ducks  and 
drakes  with,  first  and  last  ?"  So  the  incapa- 
bles  gathered  round  my  grandfather ;  and  on 
his  patrimonial  farm.  Sandhill,  Avhere  he  em- 
j)loyed  eight  laborers  the  whole  j'car  round,  not 
one  of  the  eight  (Mr.  Michael  ©lawlinc,  the  fore- 
man, excepted)  was  a  sound  man.  One  of  his 
staff  had  enlargement  of  the  heart,  a  second 
had  an  attack  of  rheumatic  fever  every  twelve 
months,  a  third  had  recently  broken  his  ribs,  a 
fourth  was  threatened  with  consumption. 

Our  way  through  the  sunny  lanes  of  the  corn 
country  to  Sandhill,  which  was  nearly  six  miles 
distant  from  the  College,  was  diversified  hj'  few 
incidents ;  wagons  lumbered  along  through  the 
dust,  between  the  high  hedges  and  over  the 
brooks  (now  almost  dried  np),  bearing  yellow 
straw  and  grain  to  prosperous  homesteads  ;  the 
chestnut  teams,  making  little  trouble  of  their 
toil,  and  with  their  bells  tinkling  at  their  head- 
gear and  their  collars,  seeming  to  be  ponderous 
fabricators  of  light  and  disorderly  music  rather 
than  beasts  of  burden. 

Once,  and  only  once,  in  our  course  we  en- 
countered a  traveler  above  the  condition  of  the 
laborers.  He  was  a  square  man,  sitting  in  a 
square  gig,  and  driving  a  square-set  bay  horse, 
whose  shining  coat  was  flecked  with  spots  of 
foam. 

'"Ah,  my  dear  Mr.  Easy,"  cried  the  square 
man,  with  a  sort  of  disjointed  cordiality,  "how 
are  you  ?  And  Miss  Easy  ?  How  arc  yon  ? 
Lovely  afternoon  for  a  drive.  You  yeomen  are 
making  your  fortunes  this  year,  Mr.  Easy — line 
crops,  high  prices,  and  no  rents." 

He  was  very  hearty  in  his  manner ;  but  I 
should  have  liked  his  manner  better  if  it  had  not 
been  cut  np  into  such  small  square  ])ieces.  His 
sentences  were  so  short,  and  were  said  in  such  a 
sharp  and  angular  tone,  that  I  felt  their  corners 
as  I  might  feel  a  pebble  in  my  shoe. 

We  responded  apjjrojjriately  to  this  greeting, 
and  as  soon  as  the  square  man  was  out  of  sight 
(his  horse  was  a  fast  trotter),  my  grandfather, 
with  an  enthusiasm  of  kindliness,  began  to  praise 
the  character  of  our  friend.  "A  most  worthy,' 
and  exemplary,  and  excellent  man  is  onr  friend 
Gurley.  If  an  honest  man  is  God's  noblest 
work,  what  must  an  honest  solicitor  be !  And 
Gurley  is  an  honest  solicitor — the  soul  of  honor, 
and  a  sound  lawyer !  My  confidence  in  Gurley 
is  nnhmited,  and  he  knows  it — and  the  conse- 
quence is,  he  docs  every  thing  in  the  way  of  his 
profession  to  serve  me.  He  is  one  of  those  men 
who  appreciate  considerate  treatment.  An  ex- 
cellent man !     The  exemjjlar  of  jn-obity !" 

I  was  glad  to  hear  Mr.  Gurley  thus  spoken  of, 
for  at  that  time  it  gave  me  great  pleasure  to 
think  well  of  my  fellow -creatures.  When  I 
lived  in  "the  corn  country,"  if  I  was  told  tliat 
any  one  was  better  than  his  neighbors  I  be- 
lieved the  statement  implicitly,  and  rejoiced  in 
the  goodness  to  which  my  attention  was  direct- 


I  cd.  I  have  learned  ere  this  to  be  less  credulous, 
to  distrust  agreeable  assurances,  to  suspect  the 
world's  judgment,  and  to  search  shrewdly  for 
the  foundations  of  the  world's  praise.      I   am 

f'ser  now,  but  I  am  not  happier.  Knowledge 
ly  bo  ])owcr,  but  it  is  not  gladness  of  heart, 
think  I  would  gratefully  give  uj)  all  I  have 
^. -ivc  tlu!  love  of  those  wlio  love  me),  if  I  could 
only  ludearn  tlie  meaning  of  sham,  take  man's 
words  on  trust,  never  again  look  out  for  false- 
hood, and  be  once  more  the  simple  little  fool  I 
was  when  I  lived  in  the  corn  country ! 

How  long  my  grandfather  would  have  gone 
on  praising  Mr.  Gurley  I  can  not  say,  had  he 
been  left  to  himself;  but  a  diversion  to  his 
thoughts  came  in  the  shape  of  half  a  dozen  little 
cliildren,  who  all  united  to  open  a  gate  through 
which  we  had  to  pass.  "There's  your  money," 
cried  my  grandfather,  throwing  down  a  shower 
of  coins,  and  turning  his  little  horse  from  the 
by-lane  into  a  "drift"  that  skirted  a  turnip  field 
—  "a  half-penny  for  each  of  you.  Divide  it 
without  quarreling,  and  don't  spend  it  on  horse- 
flesh." "Do  yon  know,  Tibby,"  my  grandfa- 
ther added,  with  a  look  of  sly  glee,  when  he  had 
driven  beyond  the  sound  of  the  hallooing  chil- 
dren, "Mr.  Clawline  calculates  that  that  gate 
costs  me  £3  per  annum !  Is  not  that  a  risible 
conceit  ?  The  notion  of  a  gate  on  my  own  prop- 
erty, which  hasn't  been  mended,  or  tinkered,  or 
touched  by  a  craftsman  for  thirty  years,  costing 
me  £3  per  annum !  It  is  such  an  uncommonly 
risible  notion !  And  I  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Claw- 
line  is  quite  correct  in  his  calculations.  In- 
deed it's  just  that  which  makes  the  notion  so 
risible." 

We  were  still  enjoying  this  highly  "  risible 
conceit,"  and  the  little  horse  was  tugging  us  slow- 
ly up  the  "drift,"  when  Mr.  Clawline  emerged 
from  behind  the  fence  on  our  right  hand,  bear- 
ing two  stone  bottles  of  harvest  beer,  slung — by 
means  of  a  leather  strap,  passed  through  the 
handles  of  the  bottles — over  his  left  shoulder. 

"The  arternewn  tew  yer,  yer  riv'rencc,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Clawline,  touching  his  hat. 

"Good-afternoon  to  you,  Mr.  Clawline,"  re- 
turned my  grandfather,  addressing  his  foreman 
with  the  extreme  of  politeness.  My  grandfa- 
ther's urbanity  couldn't  have  been  greater  if  Mr. 
Clawline  had  been  a  deputy-lieutenant  of  the 
county.  "I  hope,  Mr.  Clawline,  you  feel  your- 
self quite  well  this  fine  weather." 

"Thank  yer,  yer  riv'rence,  I'm  not  without 
my  health.  And  my  suvvis  ter  yew,  Miss  Tree  ; 
I  trust  the  ai'ternewn  agree  with  yer." 

Mr.  Clawline  had  two  ways  of  pronouncing 
the  second  personal  pronoun  of  the  plural  num- 
ber. When  he  was  emphatic,  he  called  it  "yew," 
and  when  he  took  it  easy,  he  called  it  "3-er." 
He  had  also  two  distinct  paces  of  enunciation — 
the  fast  and  the  slow;  neither  of  which  were 
at  all  agreeable  to  ray  ear.  When  he  cmjiloyed 
tlie  quick,  I  wanted  him  to  sjitxik  slower,  and 
when  he  made  use  of  the  slow,  I  invariably 
wished  that  he  would  talk  faster. 

In  aj^pcarancc  Mr.  Clawline  was  not  impos- 
ing. He  was  about  the  middle  height,  high- 
shouldered,  thick-set,  and  more  fleshy  than  the 
ordinary  run  of  laboring  men.  His  hair  was 
red,  and  cropped  close ;  and  pendent  from  the 
boldest  curve  of  his  body  (I  mean  that  jjortion 
of  Mr.  Clawline  which  was  covered  by  the  lower 


12 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


part  of.liis  lmi<^  rod  waistcoat,  only  I  can't  find 
an  niiol>ii;cti(inat)l(;  name  tu  convey  my  meaning) 
dangled  a  watcli-chain,  with  a  ])lain  seal  at- 
tached. I  may  here  also,  ])arenthetically,  state 
that  this  same  ]iortion  of  Mr.  Clawline  imme- 
diately under  the  lower  ])art  of  his  long  ]||^ 
waistcoat  was  (his  station  of  life  heing  consil^ 
ered)  singularly  large.  If  I  add  also  that  his 
visage  was  so  freckled  tliat  the  freckles  in  some 
favored  spots  seemed  to  lie  on  the  top  of  each 
other,  I  shall  have  said  enough  of  Mr.  Clawline's 
physical  jieculiarities. 

However  hot  the  weather  was,  Mr.  Clawline 
always  wore  thick  leather  gaiters,  and  a  douhle- 
brcasted  velveteen  coat.  Even  when  he  was  at 
work  with  a,  rake,  or  a  very  light  pitchfork,  ho 
never  relaxed  himself  by  throwing  aside  either 
of  these  component  parts  of  his  official  costume. 
"Fur  yer  knoo.  Miss  Tree,"  he  explained  to  me 
when  I  once  suggested  tliat  he  should  not  wear 
so  heavy  a  coat  in  the  broiling  sun,  "I  am  his 
riv'rence's  foreman,  an'  it  'ud  nivcr  du  if  I  woz 
tu  strip  tu  my  work.  There  is  grades  and  grades 
all  the  world  uver.  There's  them  as  may  strip  tu 
their  work,  and  tliere's  them  as  must  strip  tu  their 
work,  and  there's  them  as  marnt  strip  tu  their 
work.  If  I  war  to  shoo  along  o'  my  men  in 
shart-sleeves  and  blew  lindsey-woolscy  calves, 
how  'ud  my  men  knoo  as  I  war  a  foreman,  and 
not  one  o'  theirselves.  I  wish  I  could  strip  mj'- 
self,  but  I  marn't  in  my  poosition  of  'sponsibili- 
ty.  When  a  man  talks  a  poost  of  'sponsibility, 
he  enjies  the  sweets  on  it,  and  he  dewu't  shark 
the  bitter." 

The  principal  treatment  to  which  Mr.  Claw- 
line subjected  his  o's  was  to  make  the  full  and 
broad  o  into  oo,  and  the  soft  oo  into  ein ;  but  he 
had  many  variations  on  this  simple  and  ingen- 
ious method. 

"Where  are  the  men,  Mr.  Clawline?"  in- 
quired my  grandfather. 

"Well,  yer  riv'rcnce,  they're  just  finishing  o' 
rippin'  i'  the  Long  Piece ;  an'  when  they've  fin- 
ished the  ripping,  I  shall  mewve  'em  all  off  to 
Little  Bell,  an'  maike  a  job  o'  the  cartin." 

"They've  made  haste,  Mr.  Clawline." 

"I  dewn't  sai  they  hevn't,  yer  riv'rence. 
They've  been  looked  arter.  It's  wholly  s'prizing 
what  a  difference  it  maike,  wlicthor  men  are 
looked  arter,  or  whether  they  arn't  looked  arter." 

"Ah,"  said  my  grandfatlicr,  after  lazily  sur- 
veying the  breadth  of  corn  land  lying  before  us, 
"it's  a  splendid  harvest!  I  never  remember  a 
better  harvest.  All  the  years  I  have  been  a 
farmer  I  have  never  soon  better  croi)s.  What 
say  you,  Mr.  Clawline?" 

During  my  grandfather's  last  sentence,  whicli 
was  enunciated  verj-  leisurely  and  after  a  jiauso, 
Mr.  Clawline  had  taken  some  ears  of  wheat  from 
his  pocket  and  rubbed  them  together  in  his 
hands.  He  had  now  thrown  away  tlie  stalks, 
and  was  winnowing  the  chatV  from  the  grain  by 
blowing  into  the  hollow  of  his  hands  and  shifting 
the  corn  from  one  palm  to  another.  At  last  the 
delicate  o]ioration  was  brought  to  a  conclusion, 
and  then — but  not  till  then — Mr.  Clawline  made 
response. 

"What  sai  yew,  Mr.  Clawline?  Look  at 
these  aer  corns.  That's  what  Michael  Clawline 
sai.  Ded  yer  riv'rence  iver  see  better  corns  ?  I 
knoo  yer  riv'rence  niver  did  see  better  corns.  A 
harvest?     I    should    think    it    war    a    harvest. 


Wheats  is  good.  Barleys  is  good.  W'oats  is 
good.  Peas  is  icerij  good.  Beans  is  vnrominon 
good.  Boots  show  well.  But  times  ain't  wjiat 
they  war.  Noo,  yer  riv'rence,  times  ain't  what 
they  war." 

Between  each  of  these  short  sentences  Mr. 
Clawline  opened  his  mouth  wide  and  chucked 
what  ho  termed  "a  corn  '  into  it ;  and  he  did  not 
proceed  to  another  of  his  series  of  interjectional 
remarks  until  he  had  bitten  "the  corn"  twice, 
and  packed  it  away  in  his  moutli  without  any 
manifest  eftbrt  of  deglutition. 

It  is  to  be  observed  that  this  plan  of  dealing 
with  an  obsen'ation  M'as  a  strong  point  of  Mr. 
Clawline's  convei-sational  system.  He  would 
first  construct  a  very  commonplace  packet  of 
words,  and  throw  it  on  the  ground,  just  as  any 
ordinary  agriculturist  might  do.  But  instead 
of  passing  on  and  leaving  it  to  its  fate,  he  would 
l)ick  it  up,  and  develop  tlic  secrets  of  its  internal 
structure  by  pulling  off  its  folds  one  after  another 
just  as  you  might  peel  an  onion.  With  Mr. 
Clawline  for  an  operator  this  was  an  interesting 
process.  As  he  stripped  off  the  skin  of  a  sable 
epithet,  and  displayed  a  silver  adjective  under  it, 
he  smiled  with  a  self-complacency  that  was  very 
irritating  to  a  nervous  spectator,  but  was  oil  and 
wine  to  a  beholder  of  a  tranquil  temperament. 
The  man  was  so  steeped  in  a  sense  of  his  own 
importance,  and  a  consciousness  that  no  other 
person  could  peel  grammatical  onions  in  the  same 
masterly  style !  And  there  was  forbearance  in 
him  too.  He  did  not  fling  the  husks  of  his  sen- 
tentiousness  in  your  face,  but  allowed  them  to 
drop  lazily  to  the  ground,  fluttered  about  by  the 
M'ind,  as  matters  of  no  imjiortancc. 

"Never  mind  the  times!"  resumed  his  rever- 
ence, cheerfully.     "I  never  had  better  crops." 

"/  niver  had  better  crops,"  rejoined  Mr. 
Clawline,  doggedly. 

"/  never  had  finer  wheat  in  the  Long  Piece," 
exclaimed  my  gi'andfather,  with  a  rising  color, 
and  a  rising  voice,  and  a  rising  emphasis  on  the 
egotistic  pronoun. 

' '  /  niver  had  finer  wheats  i'  the  Long  Piece, " 
rejoined  Mr.  Clawline,  viciously. 

"  I !  I !  I !  How  many  I's  go  to  sjiell  i/oti  ? 
Can  you  answer  me  that,  Mr.  Clawline?"  asked 
my  dear  grandfiither,  with  an  unmistakable 
flash  of  anger.  "Who  do  you  think.  Sir,  is 
the  master  of  this  farm  ?  Your  crops,  indeed  ! 
Who's  master  here,  you  or  I  ?" 

"Now,  yer  riv'rence,  how  can  yew  go  for  to 
aix  sech  a  kivestishun  as  that,  M'ith  Miss  Tree 
(my  humble  suvvis  to  her)  a  setting  i'  the  hobbj'- 
cairt  by  your  side  ?  I  master?  Who's  master? 
Well,  i  niver  he'erd  tell  i'  the  like.  But  a  kives- 
tishun must  be  ansvered.  Who's  masiev?  Why, 
surelic,  yew're  master.  Yew're  the  lliv'rcnt  Solo- 
mon Easy  of  Farnham-Cobb  College,  and  owner 
o'  Sandhill.  That's  wiiat  yew  arc.  Now,  who's 
I?  I"ll  jest  toll  yer  riv'rence  what  I  am.  lam 
yer  riv'rence's  right-hand  man,  and  not  awl  the 
wigs  at  Sissions  or  'Zizes  can  countersai  but  what 
I  am  yer  right-hand  man.  If  the  wigs  at  the 
Sissions  or  'Zizes  war  to  aix  what  I  air,  I  should 
sai  'I'm  his  riv'rence's  right-hand  man,  and  fur 
his  riv'rence  I'm  oop  airly  and  I'm  down  late, 
an'  I  eat  the  sweat  o'  carefulness.'  That's  jest 
as  I  should  put  it.  '  Fur  his  riv'rence,'  I  should 
sai  out  o'  the  book,  'I  cat  the  sweat  o'  careful- 
ness.'    And  not  a  wig  at  the  Sissions  or  'Zizes 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


13 


eonld  countersai  mc.  But  to  go  for  to  aix  mc 
•who  I  am?'  is  nothing  but  to  crow  over  a  poor 
man." 

"Tusii,  tiisli,  man,"  responded  my  grand- 
father, quite  mollified  toward  his  right-hand 
man,  "you're  a  most  faithful  steward  of  my 
interests.  I  was  wrong,  Mr.  Clawline,  I  was 
wrong.  I  meant  to  say  '  ^oe  had  never  had  bet- 
ter crops.' " 

"  Well,  yer  riv'rence,  it's  jest  like  yeiv  to  j)ut  it 
so, "responded  Mr.  Clawline,  concluding  the  con- 
troversy and  pocketing  his  winnings. 

My  grandfather  had  filliped  up  the  "little 
horse,"  and  we  were  again  progressing  along  the 
drift,  when  Mr.  Clawline  called  after  us, 

"I  har  'bout  them  ship." 

"Them  ship  ?  what  ship  ?"  inquired  my  grand- 
father, pulling  up. 

"Them  tew  score  o'  South-Downs,  as  I  tonid 
yer  riv'rence  on.  An'  I  got  'era  sax-pins  er  hid 
under  what  yer  counted." 

"Ah,"  said  my  grandfather,  taking  all  the 
merit  of  his  right-hand  man's  bargain  to  himself, 
"I  always  get  my  stock  a  little  under  market- 
price.     I'm  a  terrible  near  hand  at  a  bargain." 

"  Ah,  yer  riv'rence  is  jest  that,"  responded  Mr. 
Clawline,  with  a  scarcely  visible  grin. 

"I  am  the  nearest  hand  at  a  bargain  in  the 

whole  county,"  added  my  grandfather,  pursuing 

his  course  of  exultation,  and  shaking  his  head  as 

.  he  reflected  on  what  a  close-fisted,  wicked  old 

dealer  he  was. 

"The  neaiiBst  hand  at  a  bargain  in  the  whole 
county !"  repeated  Mr.  Clawline,  with  a  subdued 
chuckle,  and  a  mischievous  light  in  his  eye. 
"That's  jest  what  yer  riv'rence  is — leastwise, 
when  there  ain't  none  but  what's  furder  off." 

Having  enunciated  this  enigmatical  sentence, 
Mr.  Clawline  slowly  raised  himself  to  the  to]) 
of  a  stile,  and  then  slowly  let  himself  down,  and 
then  slowly  disappeared  behind  a  high  hedge, 
to  make  a  short  and  easy  route  to  the  Long 
Piece. 

The  reaping  was  done  in  the  Long  Piece  ;  and 
in  ihalf  an  hour's  time  I  was  sitting  mider  a 
hedge,  that  warded  off  the  rays  of  the  falling 
sun,  at  the  top  of  the  inclosure  called  Little  Bell. 
The  creaking  wagon  had  already  taken  the  first 
load  past  me  to  the  stack-yard.  The  scene  was 
cheerful  to  look  at,  and  the  line  of  workmen  in 
the  amber  sunlight  moving  the  sheaves  with  a 
flock  of  gleaners  in  their  rear  had  so  picturesque 
an  effect,  and  such  a  fresh  '  southwest  breeze 
played  about  the  stubble,  that  as  I  sat  in  the 
shade  I  did  not  think  of  the  toil,  and  heat,  and 
dust  endured  by  the  actors  in  the  panorama  be- 
fore me.  I  attributed  to  them  the  happiness  I 
myself  experienced.  They  seemed  to  me  to  be 
only  amusing  themselves. 

I  had  my  "tatting"  work  in  my  hand.  On 
one  side  of  me  on  the  bank  lay  my  grandfather's 
coat,  and  gaiters,  and  three-cornered  hat.  (The 
buckles  and  silk  stockings  he  only  wore  at  "Dec- 
larations.") He  was  hard  at  it  among  the  work- 
men, with  his  white  shirt-sleeves  and  stockings 
conspicuously  contrasting  with  his  dark  raiment. 
As  he  was  not  foreman  he  could  ' '  strip  tew  his 
wark."  On  my  other  side  was  a  basket  con- 
taining a  bottle  of  cider  and  a  harvest-cake; 
and  sitting  close  against  this  basket  was  Julian 

\Gower. 
Julian  had  walked  over  from  Beechcy,  and 


had  worked  all  the  morning  long  in  the  wheat- 
field.  It  was  such  fine  weather,  he  said,  that  it 
seemed  a  pity  my  grandfather  should  not  get  up 
his  crojjs  in  it,  and  secure  himself  against  the 
chances  of  a  change  of  weather.  So  Julian  had 
done  the  l)est  he  could  do,  with  his  strong  arms, 
and  broad  chest,  and  athletic  frame,  to  aid  at  the 
ingathering.  Julian  was  just  my  age,  though 
he  looked  younger,  as  he  had  not  even  a  prom- 
ise of  whisker,  and  only  a  little  dark  down  on 
his  up]ier  lip.  He  lacked,  however,  no  other 
])hysical  sign  of  manfulness.  He  was  six  feet 
high,  and  was  a  nolAc  youth  to  look  at — grace- 
ful, gracious,  bright-eyed,  and  full  of  fun.  The 
toil  of  the  day  had  slightly  sobered  him,  and 
given  him  more  of  a  pensive  air  than  he  usually 
had  ;  and  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  his  bright 
brown  curls,  and  his  clear  eyes,  and  truthful  lips, 
that  I  had  never  seen  him  more  to  my  taste. 
As  he  had  been  working  for  so  many  hours  fii 
the  broiling  sun,  it  was  only  natural  that  he 
should  like  to  rest  himself  by  my  side,  and  re- 
fresh himself  with  a  glass  of  cider  and  a  little 
chat. 

"Then  jolly  little  Etty  is  at  her  lessons?"  he 
asked,  in  continuation  of  a  previous  question. 

"Puzzling  over  her  Telemachus  at  this  pres- 
ent moment,"  I  answered. 

"I  suppose  she'll  go  to  school  soon  for  a  fin- 
ish," suggested  Julian,  after  a  pause. 

This  was  quite  a  new  thought  to  me,  and  I 
said  so. 

"You  were  younger  when  you  went  for  two 
years  to  Bridgeham.  She  is  not  so  very  young, 
and  for  the  matter  of  that  she  is  hot  so  very  lit- 
tle— though  I  called  her  so  just  now.  She  is 
creeping  up.  She  is  considerably  taller  than 
you  as  it  is,  although  she  wears  short  frocks." 

"I  declare  you're  right,  Julian,"  I  answered; 
"but  I  do  assure  you  till  this  minute  I  have  al- 
ways considered  her  as  a  mere  nursery  pet,  just 
as  she  was  ten  years  ago.  I  hope  we  haven't 
been  inconsiderate  to  her  feelings,  and  made  her 
too  young." 

"That  I  am  sure  you  haven't,"  responded 
Julian,  quickly;  "she  has  had  a  happy  child- 
hood— a  very  happy  childhood.  Who  wouldn't 
be  happy,  Tibby,  living  under  your  serene  influ- 
ence ?  I  was  only  gossiping  as  an  old  friend 
may  gossip." 

"  Jule,"  I  said,  quietly  settling  the  matter  in 
my  own  mind,  "you're  very  kind  to  point  it  out 
to  me.  Etty  shall  go  into  long  dresses  this  very 
week,  whether  she  like  it  or  not.  And  what's 
more,  I'll  ask  grandpapa  to  send  her  to  school. 
She  ought  now  to  have  better  instruction  than  I 
can  give  her." 

It  may  seem  strange  that  I  and  Julian  Gower 
• — neither  engaged  to  each  other,  nor  related  in 
blood  to  each  other,  nor  in  any  way  connected 
with  each  other  save  by  the  ties  of  warm  friend- 
ship, ay,  warm  alfection,  cherished  from  child- 
hood upward — should  thus  discuss  the  propriety 
of  putting  my  sister  Annette  (familiarly  called 
Etty)  into  long  dresses,  and  the  advisability  of 
sending  her  to  school.  But  Julian  and  I  had 
long  been  close  friends.  We  were  exactly  of 
the  same  age — twenty-two  on  the  sixteenth  of 
July  last  past.  We  had  been  playmates  from 
the  time  of  my  mother's  death.  While  he  was 
at  school  at  Laughton  he  wrote  to  me  regularly 
once  a  week.     The  greater  part  of  each  of  his 


14 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


holidays  he  had  spent  at  "the  College,"  when 
we  used  to  fisii,  and  birdsnest,  and  hunt  rats, 
and  slide  on  tlie  ice  together.  Dnrinp;  his  five 
years'  apprenticeship  in  tiie  horrible  Nortlium- 
berlaiul  mines  he  continued  his  corresjjondence, 
sending  me  a  monthly  letter,  expensive  thongii 
postage  was  in  those  days;  and  every  3^ear  he 
had  paid  me  a  visit.  And  now  that  his  a])pren- 
ticcship  was  finished,  and  he  was  able  to  take  a 
six  weeks'  lioliday,  he  was  s))ending  all  the  six 
weeks  at  Beechey,  for  the  .sake  of  being  near  me 
and  my  grandtiither  and  Etty.  It  was,  there- 
fore, only  a  matter  of  course  tliat  Julian  Gower 
talked  fully  and  frankly  about  every  thing  that 
interested  me. 

'•'  I  say,"  said  Julian,  suddenly,  after  a  min- 
ute's silence,  "don't  you  think  old  Clawline  is  a 
humbug  ?" 

This  inquiry  was  suggested  by  the  apparition 
•f  the  foreman  passing  slowly  down  imder  the 
opposite  hedge  of  the  lield  in  the  direction  of  the 
wagons  and  harvest-men. 

"  Grandpapa  thinks  him  a  very  valuable  serv- 
ant," I  answered,  coldly.  I  thought  that  Julian 
was  for  once  inclined  to  be  uncharitable. 

"A  valuable  servant!  a  foreman  I"  respond- 
ed Julian,  in  a  tone  of  undisguised  contempt. 
"I'll  tell  you,  Tiliby,  what  I  should  like  to  do. 
I  should  like  to  pull  that  fellow's  velveteen 
jacket  off  his  hack,  and  take  his  leather  gaiters 
olf,  and  put  a  jiitchfork  in  liis  hand,  and  say  to 
him,  'Now,  Master  Clawline,  just  make  your- 
self handy ;  and  if  you  don't  work  to  my  satis- 
faction I'll  give  you  a  jolly  good  thrashing  with 
this  ash-stick  !'  I  dislike  that  fellow  enormous- 
ly. He  is  the  only  strong  man  in  the  field,  with 
the  exception  of  myself;  he  is  paid  three  times 
as  much  as  any  workman  in  the  field  ;  and  yet 
he  is  the  only  man  in  the  field  who  all  this 
scorching  day  has  not  done  a  single  stroke  of 
work." 

"Well,  well,  Julian,"  I  said,  in  an  altered 
tone,  for  the  sterling  truth  and  earnestness  of 
Julian's  criticism  had  in  the  space  of  a  few  mo- 
ments caused  Mr.  Clawline  to  sink  considerably 
in  my  estimation,  "that's  no  doubt  true  what 
you  say  of  Clawline.  Onlj'  don't  tell  grandpapa 
what  you  think  ;  don't  disturb  him." 

"Bless  you,  Tibby,  I  should  not  think  of  do- 
ing any  such  thing!"  Julian  replied,  emjihatic- 
ally.  "What  good  could  come  of  paining  dear 
IMr.  Easy  ?  What  I  say  to  you  is  said  in  confi- 
dence to  you." 

That  was  all  right  then.  And  as  it  was  "  in 
confidence  to  me,"  w^hy  I  liked  Julian  all  the 
better  for  having  said  it. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  when  the  harvest  born 
sounded  through  the  distance — floating  from  the 
ridge  of  the  Bilsbury  hills  over  the  mere  and  the 
ozier  ground  to  our  jiarty  in  Little  Bell.  At  tlie 
very  moment  that  the  fir.-t  of  the  mellow  notes 
reached  us  our  last  load  of  wheat  was  topped, 
and  went  off  reeling  to  the  farm  buildings  amidst 
the  cheers  of  the  men  and  the  gleaners.  Then 
Tom  Hilt,  who  had  lost  three  fingers  and  an 
eye  in  his  Majesty's  service,  seized  a  horn  and 
answered  back  the  melody  of  the  Bilsbury  hills. 
Then  other  h(n-ns  from  other  distant  harvest  fields 
were  heard  at  various  ])oinls  and  different  de- 
grees of  remoteness  ;  and  the  gleaners,  tying  up 
th3  mouths  (jf  their  sacks,  began  to  move  out  of 
Little  Bell  in  a  long,  irregular  coUunn. 


"  How's  the  gleaning  ?"  inquired  my  gvr.ndfa- 
ther.      "Pretty  good 'r*' 

"The  bestest  glinning  i'  th'  sax  parishes,"  cried 
a  shrill-voiced  woman  ;  "there  ain't  no  glinning 
i'  th'  whol'  land  like  yer  riv'rence's.  And  God 
bless  yer  for't,  Parson  Easy;  God  bless  yer  for't !" 

And  as  a  general  chorus  of  "God  bless  yer 
for't,  Parson  Easy  !"  rose  from  the  gleaners,  ray 
grandfather  became  very  red  in  the  face  and 
bright  in  the  eyes. 

As  soon  as  my  grandfather  had  had  a  glass  of 
cider  and  a  slice  of  cake,  and  had  buttoned  on 
his  gaiters,  and  put  his  straw-hat  in  a  poke,  and 
aiTayed  himself  once  more  in  his  three-cornered 
hat  and  black  coat,  Julian  drove  the  •'  little 
horse"  into  the  field,  all  readv  for  our  home- 
ward journey.  At  "the  sounding  of  the  horns" 
Julian  had  run  off  to  the  homestead  and  har- 
nessed the  pony  into  the  gig  himself,  and  was 
already  on  his  way  to  the  field  when  he  met 
Tom  Hilt,  whom  the  dignified  Mr.  Clawline  had 
dispatched  to  "see  after  his  riv'rence's  hobby- 
cairt." 

It  took  some  little  time  for  Julian  to  arrange 
us  to  his  satisfaction  in  the  gig,  for  we  had  to 
convey  to  "  the  College"  a  largish  hamper  of  po- 
tatoes, a  bag  of  turnips  for  the  table,  and  an- 
other smaller  hamj)er  containing  eggs  and  honey. 
To  accommodate  all  this  luggage  we  had  to  dis- 
pose of  our  legs  with  more  regard  to  the  possible 
ihan  the  graceful.  My  grandfather's  right  foot 
(on  the  final  settlement  of  difficulties)  rested  on 
the  step,  and  his  left  foimd  lodgm^t  on  the  top 
of  the  little  dash-board,  the  arch  thus  formed  by 
his  left  leg  being  built  up  with  the  turnip-bag 
and  egg-basket.  As  for  me,  both  my  feet  were 
on  the  lid  of  the  ])otato-hamper,  and  both  my 
knees  were  within  half  a  foot  of  my  chin. 

When  "the  little  horse"  was  put  in  motion, 
Julian  Gower  cried  out  to  us  cheerily  "Good- 
night ! "  and  leaping  a  fence  made  off  for  Beechey. 

And  my  grandfather  and  I  once  more  drove 
with  much  jingling  and  rattling  through  the 
lanes  of  the  corn  country.  In  the  gentle  twi- 
light we  made  our  way  back  to  Farnham  Cobb 
with  scarce  the  exchange  of  a  word.  I  remem- 
ber that  I  enjoyed  that  drive  very  much.  I  was 
so  very  hajipy  that,  though  I  tliought  of  Julian 
Gower,  I  never  troubled  myself  with  conjectur- 
ing what  would  become  of  me  in  the  after-life. 

It  was  not  till  I  got  out  of  the  gig  at  the 
College  gate  that  I  discovered  I  was  cramped 
through  sitting  in  a  consti-ained  attitude. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LTMM    HALL. 

TniiE  to  my  promise  that  I  Avould  pro\ide 
Etty  with  habiliments  suitable  to  a  grown-up 
young  lady,  and  also  do  my  best  to  secure  her  a 
better  education  than  she  had  hitherto  enjoyed, 
I  attacked  my  grandfather  on  the  two  points  as 
we  were  jogging  along  the  lanes  to  Lymm  on  the 
2d  of  September.  The  2d  of  Se])tembcr  was  my 
grandfather's  birthday,  and  on  tliat  day  we  al- 
wnvs  made  an  excursion  to  Lymm — for  reasons 
tliat  will  appear  in  the  course  of  this  chapter. 
On  the  2d  of  September  we  always  dined  on  cold 
partridgc-])ie — in  a  fashion  tliat  will  be  narrated 
in  the  course  of  this  chapter. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


U 


I  felt  that  morning  somewhat  dissatisfied  with 
Etty.  Perhaps  I  should  speak  more  of  whole 
truth  if  I  said  that  I  had  felt  somewhat  unamia- 
bly  toward  her.  She  had  not  been  well  i)leascd 
with  my  proposing  to  leave  her  alone  at  the  Col- 
lege all  day  while  I  made  a  pleasant  trip  with 
my  grandfather.  She  was  in  a  mode  for  com- 
pany, and  knew  the  arrangement  would  cause 
licr  to  have  a  dull  time  of  it.  For  really  Mrs. 
Skettle  was  no  company  at  all  for  a  child  of  her 
age.  As  for  me,  I  would  readily  have  stopped 
at  home,  and  allowed  her  to  take  the  trip ;  but 
the  Lymm  excursion  was  an  annual  and  alto- 
gether exceptional  affair,  and  my  grandfather 
always  wished  me  to  make  it  with  him.  On  one 
occasion,  when  I  could  not  take  it  with  him,  he 
went  alone  rather  than  have  another  com])anion. 
The  knowledge  of  that,  however,  could  not  rec- 
oncile Etty  to  her  day's  prospect ;  and  she  took 
out  her  drawing  materials,  and  slates,  and  les- 
son-books in  not  the  best  of  humors.  ' '  How 
strange  it  is,"  she  said,  as  I  was  setting  her  the 
quantity  of  French  exercise  and  Telemachus  I 
expected  of  her,  "that  I  should  have  to  obey  a 
little  snub-nosed,  wall-eyed  thing  like  j^oxx!" 
Now  this  saucy  speech  touched  me  to  the  quick, 
and  made  me  for  an  instant  quite  angiy.  The 
dear  child  had  not  intended  to  annoy  me.  She 
only  wished  to  push  oif  her  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment with  one  of  h^^Quaint  sallies.  She  was 
far  too  generous  to  tbHi|>f  Avounding  me  through 
any  personal  defects  J^might  suifer  imder;  and 
she  was  too  beautiful  herself,  and  too  careless 
of  her  beauty,  to  tliink  seriously  that  an  absence 
of  beauty  was  a  gravely  important  matter.  But 
I  was  angry,  and  my  ej'cs  flashed  angrily ;  and  I 
was  about  to  give  uttei-ance  to  a  stinging  reply 
when  the  darling,  seeing  my  vexation,  in  her 
madly  impetuous  fashion  threw  her  arms  round 
my  neck,  and  suffocating  me  with  kisses  and 
tears,  exclaimed,  "Oh,  dear  Tibby,  how  unkind, 
how  cruel,  how  base,  how  vile,  how  utterly  dis- 
honorable you  must  think  me !  But  indeed — 
indeed  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said!  I  wouldn't 
hurt  you  for  the  world.  I  only  intended  to  be 
merry.  Don't  think  severely  of  me,  dear.  Do 
forgive  !" 

The  tiff  was  soon  over.  I  cried  a  little  in  a 
foolish,  half-joyful  way,  and  laughed  a  great  deal 
more,  a:nd  kissed  Etty  inordinately,  and  then 
ran  off  to  join  my  grandfather.  But  knowing 
how  sensitive  the  dear  child  was,  and  how  she 
would  not  all  the  day  long  be  comfortable  in  her 
own  mind  from  recollecting  her  idleness  and  my 
silly  anger,  I  could  not  be  easy  as  I  sat  behind 
the  little  horse  and  was  carried  through  the 
lanes.  Tlie  way  to  Lymm  is  for  the  most  part 
one  continuous  arch-way  of  leafage ;  and  that 
morning  the  sun  was  out  bright  in  the  blue 
heavens,  and  the  checkered  shade  was  very 
pleasant.  I  should  have  thoroughly  .enjoyed  it 
if  I  could  have  gone  back  to  Farnham  Cobb,  just 
for  two  seconds,  to  assure  Etty  that  I  loved  her 
better  than  my  own  life. 

"Grandfather,"  I  said,  as  we  rattled  into  a 
long  straight  lane  of  avenue — a  perfect  tunnel 
of  greenery. 

"Ay,"  said  my  grandfather,  looking  down  at 
me  through  his  silver-rimmed  spectacles. 

"I  am  going  to  put  Etty  into  long  dresses." 

"Goodness,  child!"  exclaimed  my  grandfa- 
ther with  astonishment,  dropping  his  whip  to 


the  dash-board,  and  letting  go  the  reins  in  his 
astonishment.  "  Goodness,  child  !  don't  be  ri- 
diculous! You'll  be  making  her  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  whole  parisli.  A  child  like  that  in 
a  woman's  dress  !     The  notion  is  prcjjosterous  I" 

"She  is  taller  than  I  am,"  I  quietly  answer- 
ed. "  She  is  no  longer  the  little  pert  fatty — all 
smiles  and  dimjiles — that  she  was  two  and  three 
years  since.  She  has  grown  prodigiously  of 
late.  You  would  hardly  think  it,  but  I  have 
actually,  in  the  last  twelve  months,  let  out  four 
inches  of  tuck  in  her  old  short  skirts  and  frilled 
drawers,  and  they  are  still  too  short  for  her. 
She  grows  like  a  scarlet-runner.  She'll  be  a 
perfect  Maypole." 

"Um!"  observed  my  grandfather;  and  he 
drove  the  next  mile  without  opening  his  lijjs,  in 
deep  thought. 

"I  declare,  Tibby,"  he  at  last  exclaimed,  with 
an  energy  and  a  suddenness  that  made  me  start 
in  my  seat,  "you're  quite  right.  As  usual, 
you're  quite  right.  Your  judgment,  my  dear 
girl,  is  unassailable.  Etty  docs  grow  like  a  scar- 
let-runner. She'll  be  as  tall  a  woman  as  her 
great-grandmother  Watson.  She  must  go  into 
long  dresses  instantly." 

So  far  so  good !  Point  No.  1  was  gained. 
Now  for  point  No.  2. 

"And  don't  you  think,  grandfather,  she  ouglit 
to  go  to  school  ?  Say  for  a  year  and  half,  or  a 
couple  of  years — just  for  a  finish." 

Mv  dear  grandfather  shook  in  his  seat. 

"  Um !"  he  said  again. 

This  second  period  of  consideration  extended 
over  two  miles  of  green  lane,  crossed  a  brook, 
and  went  as  far  as  the  middle  of  Tattham  Com- 
mon. 

I  watched  him  with  anxious  curiosity  as  he 
fidgeted  in  his  seat,  dropped  the  reins,  picked 
them  up  again,  and  filliped  the  little  horse  with 
his  whip.  I  was  grieved  to  see  an  expression  of 
trouble  come  over  his  face,  as  if  a  mental  pain 
tried  him. 

"My  dear  Tibby,"  at  last  the  dear  old  man 
rejoined,  in  a  tone  of  expostulation,  "I  reall}- 
don't  see  the  necessity.  You  are  yourself  high- 
ly accomplished.  No  expense  has  been  spared 
on  your  education." 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  none,"  I  jiut  in,  quickly. 

"  You  paint  in  water-colors — you  are  a  modern 
linguist,"  continued  my  grandfather,  running 
through  the  intellectual  attainments  he  supposed 
me  to  possess;  "you  are  a  sufficient  historian; 
you  are  a  pianist ;  you  are  a  sound  theologian  ; 
and — 1/ou  have  the  instrument.^' 

The  concluding  particular  of  the  catalogue  re- 
ferred to  the  old  piano,  already  mentioned  in 
these  pages,  for  which  my  grandfather  had  a  re- 
spect almost  amounting  to  superstition.  I  do 
verily  believe  that  in  his  more  romantic  moments 
he  thought  * '  the  instrument"  was  by  itself  able 
to  educate  a  3'oung  lady  in  all  the  departments 
of  useful  and  ornamental  knowledge. 

ILad  he  s.topped  when  he  called  me  a  sound 
theologian,  I  could  have  debated  the  point  with 
him.  But  the  emphasis  he  laid  on  his  last  words 
rendered  me  vmable  to  rc])ly. 

He  was  silent  again  for  a  few  minutes,  when 
he  turned  round  njion  me  and  said,  slowly — 
bringing  the  little  horse  to  a  dead  stop,  in  order 
that  his  words  might  b-  the  more  impressive — 
"My  dear  Tibby,  you  must  dismiss  this  thouglit 


16 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


from  your  mind.      I  c:in  not  consent  to  send 
Etty  to  school." 

Having  said  tliis  he  turned  away  his  face,  and 
I  saw  that  the  look  of  trouble  was  still  on  it. 
This  may  apjjcar  to  some  a  trifling  incident  to 
make  so  "much  of,  but  it  impressed  me  much  at 
the  time. 

Of  course  I  did  not  renew  my  ap]ieal.  At- 
tributing my  dear  grandfather's  refusal  to  an  af- 
fectionate reluctance  on  his  part  to  send  his  play- 
mate, Etty,  out  of  the  circle  of  his  daily  interests, 
I  determined  at  tlie  moment  never  again  to  re- 
peat my  j)ainful  proposal. 

It  never  occurred  to  me  that  one  of  his  reasons 
for  declining  to  accede  to  my  request  was  the  pe- 
cuniary cost  of  com])liance.  Still  further  from 
my  mind  was  any  suspicion  that  the  cost  was  be- 
yond his  means.  He  had  sent  me  to  the  best 
girls'  school  in  our  side  of  the  county ;  it  was 
therefore  only  natural  in  nxe  to  suppose  that  he 
could  aiford  to  do  the  same  for  my  sister.  But 
considerations  of  money  at  that  time  of  my  life 
never  entered  into  my  head.  Simple  as  our  \h'e 
was,  it  was  secure  for  the  period  from  any  of  the 
chilling  and  nipping  influences  of  poverty.  We 
lived  in  a  house  well  supplied  with  seiwants  and 
generous  fare.  Our  apparel  was  far  superior  to 
that  of  any  other  inhabitants  of  Farnham  Cobb. 
We  were  the  gentlefolk  of  the  village  ;  looked 
up  to,  courted,  imitated.  It  was  true,  we  led  a 
very  secluded  life ;  never  had  company ;  never 
heard  of  dinner-parties  or  tea-parties,  had  not 
more  than  half  a  dozen  acquaintances  of  our 
rank  to  bow  to  in  the  whole  world,  never  by  any 
chance  went  out  on  a  staying  visit ;  and,  conse- 
quently, did  not  indulge  in  many  of  those  daily 
expenses  which  are  usual  with  people  in  the  mid- 
dle way  of  life.  But  as  in  our  limited  field  of 
experience 'we  never  had  to  deny  ourselves  any 
object  of  our  wishes,  because  we  couldn't  aif(n-d 
it,  and  as  we  were  manifestly  much  richer  than 
our  immediate  neighbors,  I  had  never  regarded 
myself,  and  Etty,  and  my  grandfather  as  at  all  aji- 
jn-oaching  the  condition  of  the  poor.  How,  there- 
fore, was  I  to  imagine  thai  my  dear  grandfather, 
on  my  asking  him  to  give  Etiy  as  good  an  educa- 
tion as  he  had  given  me,  thought  of  a  narrow  in- 
come, and  its  inability  to  eft'ect  what  I  desired  ? 

My  education  was  by  no  means  so  complete  as 
my  dear  grandfather  sujiposed.  As  to  my  being 
a  sound  theologian,  I  sinii)ly  was  in  the  habit  of 
reading  the  ])rayer-book  and  homilies  as  well  as 
the  Bible.  But  partly  because  I  was  quick  at 
fetching  out  any  text  my  grandfather  might  need 
for  touching  up  liis  sermons,  and  partly  because 
he  had  appointed  me,  on  the  foundation,  Vice- 
gerent of  the  College,  with  a  salary  of  £10  ]ier 
annum,  and  partly  because  I  played  our  old  or- 
gan in  the  village  church,  he  would  j)ersist  in 
trying  to  make  out  that  I  was  as  learned  as  a 
bishop.  It  was  rather  ]irovoking  (jf  him  some- 
times. It  was  true  I  could  read  French  with  fa- 
cility, and  knew  a  little  Italian,  and  thatli)aint- 
ed  very  badly  indeed  in  water-colors.  But  surely 
those  accomidishments  were  slender  accomjilish- 
ments  to  make  so  much  fuss  about.  Bridgehnm 
School  was  an  excellent  one,  kept  by  a  good,  gen- 
tle, and  zealous  mistress ;  but  it  was  all  on  the 
oldest  possible  fashion.  More  attention  was  paid 
in  it  to  the  young  ladies'  fancy  work  than  any 
thing  else.  Every  young  lady,  in  her  last  year 
before  leaving,  hud  to  work  witli  her  needle  an 


exquisite  little  baby's  cap  and  shirt — to  take  with 
her  and  kec])  against  the  time  she  should  marry 
and  have  a  little  baby  to  wear  them.  In  my  last 
year  I  embroidered  those  quaint  articles  of  ap- 
l)arel.  The  shirt  was  of  the  finest  French  lawn, 
and  I  let  into  each  shoulder-] )iece  an  elaborate 
])iece  of  i)oint  lace,  half  an  inch  wide,  and  of  my 
own  work  too.  The  cap  and  the  little  lawn  jack- 
et were  in  my  lavender  drawer  at  "the  College," 
and  sometimes  I  really  enjoyed  taking  them  out 
from  among  my  stock  of  treasures  and  wonder- 
ing how  many  years  it  would  be  before  they  would 
be  used.  It  would  be  thought  very  reprehensible 
and  highly  indelicate  to  put  young  ladies  at  board- 
ing-school to  such  pastime  now.  I  imagine  that 
any  schoolmistress  at  Brighton,  or  Bath,  or  else- 
where, who  should  dare  to  set  up  a  baby-linen 
class,  would  be  accused  of  putting  wrong  notions 
and  mischievous  ideas  into  her  pupils'  heads,  and 
would  S])eedily  come  to  ruin.  But  reflecting  on 
my  own  happy  and  innocent  girlhood,  I  can  hon- 
estly say  that  if  I  bad  a  little  girl  now,  I  should 
like"  her  to  be  brought  up  in  every  particular  as 
I  was  brought  up  in  "the  good  old  time." 

As  I  rode  on  toward  Lymm,  thinking  of  my 
old  school-days  at  Bridgeliam,  I  was  determin- 
ing to  do  my  best  to  supply  Etty's  want  of  a 
school  education. 

On  arriving  at  Lymm — a  village  containing 
two  small  and  humble  f^m-houses  and  about 
twenty  cottages,  made  uhko  a  sort  of  street — 
we  left  our  "little  horse^B  be  cared  for  by  the 
landlord  of  "The  Eye  and  Spectacle,"  or  "Eye 
and  S])ettacle,"  as  the  inhabitants  of  Lymm 
called  it ;  and  taking  from  the  gig  our  basket, 
holding  the  cold  partridge-jjic,  and  Madeira, 
and  the  et  cetera,  Ave  walked  ofi"  to  spend  the 
day,  surveying  the  graves  and  the  home  of  my 
grandfather's  immediate  ancestors. 

We  first  went  into  the  church  and  saw  the 
tonabs  of  the  Easies  and  the  Trees,  who  had  for 
generations  owned  the  land  of  the  large  and  fer- 
tile pai'ish  of  Lymm,  and  had  thr()Uglu)ut  all 
tho  generations  been  fast  friends,  though  they 
had  never  intermarried,  until  the  last  of  the 
Trees  married  my  mother,  and  contributed  me 
and  Etty  to  the  population  of  Great  Britain. 
The  grandest  of  the  Easy  monuments  was  a 
square  marble  chest,  inscribed  "Sacred  to  the 
Memory  of  Marmaduke  Easy,  Gentleman,  of 
Lymm  Hall,  and  Five  Hundred  Acres  of  Heavy 
Land  in  This  Parish.  He  died,  ii:TAT.  50,  a.d. 
1780."  As  my  grandfather  stood  over  this  mon- 
ument his  head  and  hands  shook,  for  it  contained 
the  ashes  of  his  father,  the  blutf,  hearty  Marma- 
duke Easy,  who  quitted  the  world  shortly  after 
the  slight,  thoughtful,  pale-faced  Solomon  Easy- 
had  taken  orders. 

On  the  head  of  my  great-grandfather's  tomb 
was  sculjjtured  the  family  device — a  shield  with 
a  solitary  human  eye  in  its  centre,  and  with 
"Oculus  Videt"  under  it  fur  a  motto.  It  was 
a  i)unning  device  on  the  name  of  the  Easies  or 
Eye-sees.  A  similar  heraldic  atrocity  attested 
the  gentility  of  the  Trees.  The  stone  beneath 
which  my  father  and  motlier  slejjt  was  engraven 
with  a  shield  bearing  tiiuke  mockeries  of  trees 
(closely  resembling  /icaiih-briislies),  and  a  motto, 
"Tres  Vircnt."  ]My  dear  grandfather  was  a 
scholar  and  a  gentleman,  and  yet  he  took  (]uite 
a  lively  pleasure  in  dusting  out  these  absurd 
memorials  of  family  pretension,  and  in  staring 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


n 


at  them  with  all  his  might.  I  could  not  sympa- 
thize with  him,  and  I  very  nearly  told  him  so. 

Quitting  the  cliurch,  we  walked  to  the  cot- 
tage of  old  Simon  Lee.  Simon  was  ninety-six 
years  old,  and  had  in  his  day  been  a  farm-la- 
borer, serving  my  great-grandfather  Marma- 
cluke,  and  his  fattier  before  him.  Simun  had 
for  years  lived  out  of  ray  grandfather's  purse  in- 
stead of  the  parish  chest ;  but  he  was  now  in  so 
dila])idated  a  condition  that  he  could  not  recog- 
nize his  benefactor,  and,  it  would  ajjpcar,  did  no- 
thing for  days  together  but  cough  and  breathe 
hard. 

"Father,  here's  his  riv'rence,"  cried  Sinffon's 
daughter,  a  woman  aged  seventy,  in  a  shrill 
voice — "the  Kiv'rent  Solomon  Easy.  Don't yer 
knoo  him  ?" 

I  should  say  that  the  woman  pronounced  our 
name  "Azy,"  as  it  was  invariably  pronounced 
by  the  poor  people  of  "the  corn  country." 

No  sign  of  intelligence  on  the  part  of  Simon. 

"Azy — Azy — Azy,"  screamed  the  daughter 
into  her  father's  ear.      "Azy — Azy." 

"  Ugh  !"  grunted  poor  old  Simon,  shifting  his 
body  in  the  bed  to  which  he  had  been  confined 
for  years.      "Azy!; — Ugh — alius — war — Azys." 

After  repeating  these  three  words  several 
times,  Simon  fell  back  into  stertorous  breath- 
ing, and  could  not  be  again  aroused.  Simon's 
daughter,  however,  was  much  elated  at  the  suc- 
cess of  her  device  for  making  her  father  talk. 
She  maintained  that  no  one  else  could  have  ex- 
tracted so  much  from  her  sire ;  and  becoming 
metaphorical  and  imaginative  as  she  proceeded 
in  her  course  of  exultation,  she  declared  "she 
could  plai  on  th'  oold  man  jest  fur  awl  the  world 
u-  if  he  war  an  oold  flewte." 

.My  grandfather  also  was  much  gratified  with 
old  Simon's  testimony  to  the  antiquity  of  the 
Easy  family,  and  notified  his  delight  by  jnitting 
a  gold  piece  on  the  table,  and  saying,  "Fine  old 
uian — faithful  old  man  !" 

Bidding  a  silent  farewell  to  Simon,  we  con- 
tinued our  excursion,  sauntering  leisurely  across 
the  church  paddock  and  the  low  meadows,  climb- 
ing the  bold  grass  ridge  known  as  the  Lymm 
banks,  passing  under  tlie  gnarled  and  ancient 
branches  of  the  Lymm  oaks,  and  presenting  our- 
selves before  Lymm  Hall. 

An  old,  higli-battlemcntcd  hall,  built  of  red 
brick,  abounding  in  bow-windows,  and  rich  in 
works  of  grotesque  sculjiture,  perched  on  the  top 
of  turrets  or  stuck  in  tlie  corners  of  projecting 
walls.  Yellow  lichen  on  the  massive  stone 
■  frames  of  windows,  glazed  with  diamond-shaped 
panes — ever  so  small.  A  very  liroad,  deep  moat 
coin])letely  surrounding  the  liouse,  its  garden, 
!  and  precinct.  The  surface  of  the  moat  in  places 
I  covered  with  water-lilies  in  blossom,  in  jdaces 
covered  with  a  scum  of  bright  green  vegetation, 
showing  yellow  in  the  flecks  of  sunlight,  and  at- 
tracting swarms  of  flies  and  minute  insects.  The 
qui^'t  water  of  the  moal  touching  the  walls  and 
lying  under  the  bow-windows  of  the  lower  rooms. 
Gr,;cn  meadow  grass,  kc])t  smooth  and  fine  by 
the  mouths  of  browsing  sheep,  running  down  to 
the  edgfe  of  the  water.  Rich  tufts  of  "forget- 
me-not"  glinting  out  on  the  bank's  verge  here 
and  there.  A  herd  of  oaks  and  forest  trees,  nei- 
ther crowded  nor  regular,  throwing  their  enor- 
toious  branches  over  the  moat  in  the  direction  of 
faie  turrets  and  steep  roof;  other  huge  trees  in 


B 


the  mo.ated  garden  sending  their  branches  to 
meet  those  on  the  opposite  bank.  Sunlight  and 
shadow  in  marked  contrast ;  scorching  light 
above  the  trees,  cool  shade  under  them.  No 
.sound  but  the  jdash  of  the  fish  fitfully  leaping 
and  rollicking  about  in  the  water.  Imagine  this 
scene,  and  the  old  man,  with  his  grand-daugh- 
ter by  his  side,  looking  at  it. 

Such  a  place  to  look  upon  was  Lymm  Hall, 
the  strong-hold  for  centuries  of  the  old  feudal 
Lords  of  Lymm,  that  had  ])assed  during  the  pro- 
tectorate of  Cromwell  from  its  original  possess- 
ors to  the  family  of  Giles,  and  a  century  later 
was  transferred  from  the  Gileses  to  the  house  of 
Easy.  AH  the  dates  and  particulars  of  these 
changes  of  ownershij)  may  be  read  in  Quantock's 
History  of  tlie  Corn  Country.  Enough  for  the 
present  journal  to  say  that  the  Barons  of  Lymm 
came  into  possession  attended  by  men  in  armor 
bearing  jjikes  in  their  hands,  and  that  the  Gileses 
and  Easies  walked  into  the  seat  of  their  earthly 
grandeui:  guarded  by  scriveners,  with  pens  be- 
hind their  ears. 

"  Yo— lio  !  Such  fishing !  I  have  had  al- 
most enough.  So  you  make  as  much  noise  as 
you  like,"  cried  a  cheering,  ringing  voice  from 
the  other  side  of  the  moat. 

It  was  Julian  Gower. 

Stationed  on  a  grass  clump,  under  a  canopy 
of  yew,  with  tackle  and  laniling-net  by  his  side, 
Julian  was  still  jdaying  with  the  fish.  He  had 
had  sport!  Of  that  there  was  no  doubt.  We 
went  round  to  the  bridge,  crossed  the  moat,  and 
joined  him  in  the  garden,  when  we  found  him 
(other  minor  prey  excepted)  triumphant  over  an 
enormous  pike,  which,  on  being  put  in  the  scales. 
proved  to  be  more  tlian  30  pounds  in  weight. 

"Good  sport.  Sir?"  inquired  Julian,  looking 
deferentially  at  my  grandfather. 

"Capital.     How  did  you  get  leave?" 

' '  I  saw  Jlr.  Gurley  last  week,  and  he  gave  mc 
an  order  for  one  day's  sport.  The  keeper  didn't 
half  like  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Gurley's  sig|^ 
ture  ;  but  he  could  not  oft'er  positive  opposition, 
and  I  gave  him  five  shillings." 

"  Jule,"  said  my  grandfather,  with  some  fer- 
vor, "  time  was  you  should  have  fished  here 
night  and  day,  and  shot  over  the  land  from  the 
beginning  of  September  to  the  end  of  October, 
and  no  keeper  should  have"  dared  to  have  an 
opinion  on  the  matter." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Easy,"  Julian  answered: 
just  as  if  my  grandfather  had  presented  him 
with  the  right  of  fishing  and  shooting.  "  I'm 
sure — I'm  much  obliged  to  you." 

"But,"  he  added,  "I  am  very  hungry,  Mr. 
Easy.    Sha'n't  we  dine  ?   The  table  is  all  ready." 

We  dined  under  the  Queen  Oak  (so  called 
from  a  tradition  that  Queen  Elizabeth,  on  a  visit 
to  Lymm  Hall,  had  admired  it,  and  feasted  at 
its  foot),  on  a  table  spread  and  set  out  by  Julian, 
with  the  hospitable  aid  of  the  tenant-farmer,  who 
was  now  the  sole  occupant  of  the  hall ;  and  when 
I  had  put  upon  "the  white  cloth  the  cold  par- 
tridge-pie, and  the  Madeira,  and  the  et  cetera 
that  I  had  brought  with  me,  I  thought  I  never 
had  seen  a  prettier  table — Julian  had  ornament- 
ed it  so  tastefully  with  flowers. 

After  dinner  my  grandfather  went  into  the 
hall  to  climb  up  the  oak  staircase,  to  pry  about 
the  old  corners,  to  look  through  the  bits  of 
stained-glass  window,  to  vi.sit  the  room  where 


18 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK 


his  mother  was  most  accustomed  to  sit  over  her 
needle-work  in  the  after-jjart  of  tiie  day,  to  sit 
a  while  in  the  little  jiarlor  where  his  father  best 
loved  to  drink  his  spiced  cup  and  sing  his  hunt- 
ing songs. 

While  he  was  so  occupied  Julian  and  I  strolled 
about  the  walks  of  the  garden,  once  trim  and 
dainty,  but  now  overgrown  and  neglected.  A 
rank  green  moss  covered  the  gravel  on  which 
brightly-attired  ladies  and  gentlemen  had  paced, 
coquetting  and  vowing,  laughing  and  love-mak- 
ing, centuries  before. 

We  talked  about  our  past  and  present  expe- 
riences, and  a  little  about  our  future  cares  and 
joys — my  life  in  the  southern  corn  country,  his 
life  on  the  banks  of  the  Tyne.  I  told  him  that 
Etty  was  to  be  made  more  of  a  woman  of,  but 
that  she  wouldn't  be  sent  to  school.  And  when 
I  narrated  to  him  the  particulars  of  my  conver- 
sation with  my  grandfather  on  the  latter  sub- 
ject, he  warmly  praised  me  for  the  part  I  had 
taken  in  it,  and  especially  enjoined  me  that  I 
should  not  again  speak  to  Mr.  Easy  on  the  mat- 
ter. He  encouraged  me  to  get  Etty  as  forward, 
and  make  her  as  clever  as  I  could,  by  myself. 
Then  he  talked  more  fully  of  his  new  engage- 
ment in  the  North — as  an  under-viewer  in  one 
of  the  mines  of  Mr.  Martin  Orger,  the  richest 
mine-owner  in  all  the  north  of  England.  He 
even  told  me  exactly  how  much  he  was  to  be 
paid  every  ibrtnight,  and  what  his  prospects  were. 
It  made  me  for  a  short  minute  or  two  rather  sad 
to  think  his  prospects  were  not  brighter ;  but  he 
was  very  hopeful — as  I  have  invariably  found  all 
great,  manful,  noble  natures  to  be. 

"I  shall  do  well  one  day,  Tibby,"  he  said, 
with  a  laugh.  "I  am  poor  now,  but  I  sha'n't 
be  so  always.  I  am  a  servant  now,  but  one  of 
these  days  I'll  be  a  master." 

"And  a  good  one  too,  Julian,"  I  answered. 

"Ay,  I  trust  so.  Any  how,  I  won't  take  a 
leaf  out  of  old  Clawline's  book.  I  won't  think 
iiiteneath  me  to  take  off  my  coat  'tew  my  wark,' 
and  I'll  try  to  be  a  good  master.  You  know, 
Tibby,  a  good  master  is  a  grand  thing." 

"Is  it?"  I  asked,  not  wanting  any  assurance 
on  the  point,  but  wishing  to  bring  him  out  into 
an  earnest  talk.  I  liked  him  when  he  was  mer- 
ly  and  mischievous  ;  I  felt  pride  in  him  when  he 
displayed  his  strengFli,  either  of  body  or  of  intel- 
ligence ;  but  I  was  solemnly  hap])y  when  he  spoke 
seriously  on  gravely  important  matters. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  clenching  his  fist,  and 
bringing  it  down  with  a  blow  on  his  knee  (we 
were  sitting  on  the  ground  at  the  time),  "  I  must 
have  the  real  thing  of  both  words — a  master  who 
is  really  a  master,  and  goodness  that  is  really 
goodness.  This  is  just  how  it  is  with  my  own 
lieart.  I  declare  to  you,  Tibby,  I  do  thoroughly 
enjoy  obeying  a  first-rate  master — a  man  who 
knows  more  than  myself,  is  every  way  stronger 
than  myself,  has  lots  of  jiluck,  shows  considera- 
tion for  others,  and  doesn't  think  himself  every 
body.  Give  me  a  captain  like  that,  and  I  enjoy 
oljcying  him  as  much  as  I  should  enjoy  being 
first  in  command  myself.  But  once  in  my  short 
life  I  had  to  be  under  a  little,  dictatorial,  jire- 
sumiituous,  ill-conditioned  fool — always  afraid 
that  people  shouldn't  take  him  at  his  own  esti- 
mate, jealous  to  madness  of  every  one  naturally 
superior  to  himself,  and  always  putting  himself 
into  pig-headed  passions.     Well,  you  know,  Tib- 


by, I  couldn't  help,  really,  and  without  any  mis- 
take about  it,  hutbuj  that  fellow  !  I  could  almost 
imagine  myself  in  some  hot  moment,  after  years 
of  provocation,  knocking  him  on  the  head,  and 
doing  for  him.     I  could,  indeed!" 

"  What's  his  name  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  never  mind  his  name,"  was  the  generous 
answer.  "  If  I  tell  you  his  name  you'll  be 
j)rejudiced  against  him,  and  dislike  him  at  first 
sight,  if  ever  you  should  meet  him.  And  that 
would  not  be  fair  to  him.  It's  enough  that  I 
hated  him,  and  that  I  don't  believe  it's  in  human 
nature,  taking  a  wide  view  of  it,  to  hate  really 
gooci  masters,  or  to  be  any  thing  but  very  fond 
of  them." 

"What  sort  of  a  man  will  be  over  you  at 
Shorten?" 

"Oh,  a  stunner,  Tibby — a  regular  stunner. 
To  be  such  '  a  chief  as  Mr.  Clay,  Mr.  Orger's 
head-viewer,  is  the  highest  point  of  my  ambi- 
tion. To  be  such  a  man  as  he  is,  and  have  such 
a  place  as  he  has,  is  all  I  wish  for.  But  you 
know  it  did  me  a  real  lot  of  service  to  smart  and 
grind  my  teeth  for  a  few  months  under  the  other 
fellow." 

"Did  you  good,  Julian  ?  How  should  it  have 
done  you  good  ?" 

"It  taught  me,"  he  said,  slowly  and  very  im- 
pressively, but  very  simply — not  at  all  as  if  he 
were  preaching — "how  bitter  and  cruel  and 
grievous  a  thing  it  is  to  be  treated  unjustly  by  a 
superior.  And  that's  a  lesson,  Tibby,  -which  (as 
the  world  goes)  it's  well  worth  a  man's  learning 
thoroughly  once  in  his  life,  if  he  is  an  honest 
man,  wishing  to  do  what  is  right  in  life.  It 
teaches  him  why  and  how  he  should  think  for 
others." 

We  were  silent  for  a  minute. 

"Ah,"  he  repeated  after  the  pause,  reverting 
to  his  former  thought,  "to  be  such  a  man  as 
Mr.  Clay  is  all  I  wish!" 

"All — every  thing?"  I  asked,  feeling  a  little 
nettled. 

"Every  thing,"  he  answered. 

I  felt  disappointed. 

"You  know,"  he  added,  in  an  explanatory 
manner,  "  Mr.  Claj"  has  a  wife  and  a  family  of 
children,  of  whom  he  is  very  fond." 

"Then  you'd  want  them ?"  I  asked,  now  quite 
])leased. 

"You  know  I  should,"  he  answered,  looking 
at  me  with  his  magnificent  dark  eyes,  so  that 
my  heart  beat  very  fast,  and  I  was  afraid  I  had 
displeased  him.  "You  know  I  should.  But  you 
know  also  I  mayn't  think  of  having  a  wife  and 
children  till  I  am  a  master." 

"  You'll  liave  them  in  good  time,"  I  answered, 
though  I  felt  my  voice  falter,  "and  be  a  very 
liajqiy  man ;   and  in  the  mean  time — " 

"In  the  mean  time  don't  put  your  last  ques- 
tion to  me  again." 

"You  are  not  angrv,  Julian?"  I  asked,  in  a 
fright. 

"Bless  yon,  Tibby,"  he  cried,  playfully,  jump- 
ing up  from  the  ground  and  assisting  me  to  rise, 
gallantly  kissing  my  right  hand  as  he  did  so — 
' '  what  a  silly  notion  !  I  angry  with  you  ?  Com.', 
it's  clear  we've  been  here  long  enough.  Lr't's 
make  haste  and  find  Mr.  Easy.  The  evening  is 
beginning  to  close  in." 

Wc  found  my  grandfather  on  the  bridge,  and 
in  company  with  him  wc  sauntered  down  the 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


19 


Lymm  Banks,  every  now  and  then  turning  round 
to  look  at  the  setting  sun.  At  the  "Eye  and 
Spcttacle"  my  grandfather  and  I  resumed  our 
nuidest  equipage,  and  iiaving  bade  adieu  to  Ju- 
lian, drove  back — slowly,  very  slowly — the  long 
twelve  miles  to  Farnham  Cobb. 

My  grandfather  was  unusually  taciturn  on  his 
way  home.  At  first  I  made  a  few  inett'ectual 
attempts  to  rouse  him  to  conversation ;  but  find- 
ing my  exertions  fruitless,  I  also  lapsed  into  a 
fit  of  silence  that  lasted  for  nearly  an  hour.  The 
quiet  stars  were  out  in  the  heavens,  and  I  turned 
my  face  up  to  them,  watching  them  without  try- 
ing to  read  my  fortune  in  them. 

"Yes,  Tibby,"said  my  grandfather,  suddenly 
recalling  me  from  my  star-gazing,  "he  is  a 
young  man  of  great  promise — of  singular  prom- 
ise." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  grandpapa," 
I  answered,  for  I  knjw  well  on  whom  his 
thoughts  ran. 

"And  he  has  splendid  fortunes  before  him." 
"Splendid?" 

"Ay,  my  deai",  golden,"  returned  my  grand- 
fiither,  warmly,  twirling  his  whip  round  in  his 
ardor  till  it  cracked.  "  Whoever  lives  to  see 
thirty  years  after  I  am  in  my  grave,  will  see  that 
young  man  opulent,  powerful,  honored.  The 
large  fortunes  of  the  country  are  made  in  the 
North — not  the  tranquil  South.  Wherever  large 
fortunes  are  being  made  there  is  a  field  for  tal- 
ent, character,  and  address  such  as  Julian  pos- 
sesses. My  dear,  Julian  will  be  a  successful 
man.  What's  more,  he'll  be  a  good  man.  And 
she'll  be  a  happy  woman  who  becomes  his  wife. 
Mark  my  words." 

I  did  mark  his  words.  I  distrusted  them  then. 
I  feared  the}'  were  the  outpouring  of  a  too  san- 
guine temperament,  and  could  not  all  be  realized. 
But  as  I  recall  them  now  I  must  admit  they  have 
been  fulfilled  with  startling  accuracy.  Opulent, 
powerful,  honoi-ed,  all  these  is  Julian  Gower, 
and  his  wife  is  the  happiest  of  women. 

It  was  past  nine  o'clock  when  we  alighted  at 
the  College  gate.  Isaac  Stoddart,  lantern  in 
hand,  took  our  little  horse,  and  I  tripped  quick- 
ly under  the  walnuts  to  announce  our  return  to 
Mrs.  Skettle  and  Etty.  It  was  dark  in  the  gar- 
den, and  I  slipped  into  the  hall  unobserved. 

At  a  table  in  a  distant  corner  sat  Etty,  busy 
with  her  drawing  materials,  lier  back  toward  the 
garden  entrance,  and  the  light  on  the  table  be- 
fore her,  flashing  its  rays  against  her  golden 
hair,  and  giving  the  scene  a  light-and-shade  ef- 
fect that  called  to  my  mind  some  engravings  of 
Dutcli  pictures  I  had  once  seen. 

"Boh!"  I  cried,  when  I  had  come  close  be- 
hind Etty's  chair. 

She  started  up,  and  began  to  scold  me  for 
startling  her. 

"Why,  child,"  was  my  next  exclamation, 
"  what  are  you  about  ?" 

"It's  your  portrait,  Tibby !"  cried  the  child, 
in  high  glee.  "I've  been  copying  it  from  my 
birthday  locket,  and  shading  it  in  after  my  own 
mind — for  I  do  so  like  thinking  about  your  face, 
dear !" 

"Althoitgh  I  am  a  snub-nosed  little  thing, 
and  have  wall-eyes." 

"Oh  don't,  Tibby!"  supplicated  Etty,  red- 
dening up.     "Do  forget  that,  dear!" 

Etty  had  really  managed  her  portrait  very 


well.  Tlie  birthday  locket  she  spoke  of  was  a 
trinket  given  her  by  my  grandfather — my  ])or- 
trait  on  one  side,  and  hers  on  the  reverse — done 
by  that  black  court-plaster  process  which  was 
popular  in  "the  old  time." 


CHAPTER  V. 

TWO    SHORT    YEARS. 


'J 


The  next  Sunday  Mas  Julian's  last  day  of 
vacation  in  "the  corn  country."  He  spent  it 
with  us,  walking  over  the  eight  miles  from 
Beechey  to  our  breakfast,  attending  me  down 
to  the  church  when  I  went  there  to  instruct  my 
class,  blowing  the  organ  while  I  played  on  it 
during  the  afternoon  service,  sauntering  with 
me  and  Etty  round  the  common  before  tea,  and 
in  the  evening  luring  my  grandfather  on  to  tell 
ns  some  of  his  old  stories.  When  he  left  the 
College  he  had  a  hearty  benediction  from  us  all. 
I\Iy  grandfather  insisted  on  his  having  another, 
and  yet  another,  glass  of  our  ancient  "yellow 
seal ;"  and  bade  him,  on  getting  once  more  to 
Tyne  side,  not  forget  his  old  friends  in  the 
South. 

"  Good-by,  Jule,  write  often  to  ns,"  I  said  to 
him  at  the  hall  door. 

He  took  my  hand,  and  besides  shaking  it 
warmly,  raised  it  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it,  say- 
ing, "Tiiink  of  me  often,  Tibby,  and  bear  in 
mind  what  I  said  to  you  the  other  day  in  Lymm 
Hall  garden." 

"That  I  will,  Jule,"  I  answered,  warmly, 
"and  it  will  make  me  very  happy  to  think 
about  it." 

"Unkind,  cruel  Julian,  to  kiss  Tibby's  hand 
and  only  shake  mine!"  cried  Etty,  shaking  her 
golden  curls  at  him. 

He  looked  at  the  beautiful  creature  for  an  in- 
stant, and  blushing  slightly,  stooped  and  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead. 

The  child  was  astonished  and  pleased  ;  but, 
though  I  doubt  not  her  little  heart  was  sad 
enough  at  parting  with  our  old  playmate,  she 
could  not  restrain  her  customary  merriment. 
"  Thank  you,  Jule,"  she  cried  ;  "but  since  you 
are  so  liberal  with  your  attentions,  don't  forget 
Mrs.  Skettle." 

"Surely  not,"  replied  Julian,  gravely,  instant- 
ly giving  the  old  lady  the  old-fashioned  salute. 

Had  a  ci'acker  exploded  mider  Mrs.  Skettle's 
hoop  she  could  not  have  been  more  astonished. 
She  had  not  recovered  from  the  first  shock  of 
her  surprise  ere  the  door  closed  on  Julian,  and 
he  was  gone. 

He  kept  his  promise  of  writing  to  us  often — 
long  letters  full  of  the  miflutest  particulars  of 
every  subject  that  interested  him.  I  do  verily 
believe  that  the  inmates  of  our  secluded  home  at 
Farnham  Cobb  knew  as  much  of  Northumbria  / 
and  her  affairs  as  the  keenest  business  men  of 
the  North.  I  am  sure  we  knew  more  than  Mr. 
Martin  Orger  himself  about  the  Shorten  mines 
— about  the  depth,  and  extent,  and  quality  of 
the  seams ;  about  the  spots  where  ventilation 
was  most  difficult,  and  foul  air  most  abundant ; 
about  the  pitmen  and  their  labors.  Etty  knew 
all  about  the  safety-lamps  of  Dr.  Clanny,  and 
George  Stephenson,  and  Sir  Humphrey  Davy, 
and  was  able  any  day  of  the  week  to  write  off  a 


20 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOEK. 


chapter  on  the  history  of  mining.  Long  ere  our 
slecj)v  neighbors  had  begun  to  take  any  interest 
in  railways,  we  were  familiar  with  all  the  past 
and  present  of  iron-roads  and  locomotives. 

Indeed  the  young  under-viewer  of  the  Shorton 
mines  was  the  hero  of  Farnham  Cobb  College. 
In  the  long  winter  evenings  we  used  to  talk 
about  him  before  gossiping  on  other  topics,  and 
when  we  had  exhausted  all  other  topics  our 
tongues  went  back  to  him.  My  grandfather  on 
tliat  subject  became  a  romancist  and  poet  of  the 
higliest  order,  representing  in  glowing  terms  the 
wealth,  and  dignity,  and  distinctions  that  await- 
ed that  "singularly  promising  young  man."  It 
was  only  natural  "that  Etty  should  symjiathize 
with  me  and  my  grandfather,  and  grow  up  to 
regard  Julian  as  the  greatest  and  best  of  men. 

Not  unfrequently  Julian's  letters  contained  a 
sheet  written  for  my  private  eye.  These  sheets 
were  written  (after  the  commencement  of  his  life 
at  Shorton)  in  a  vein  unlike  the  spirit  of  any  of 
his  former  compositions ;  and  as  lime  Avent  on, 
their  peculiar  object  was  even  more  and  more 
plainly  declared.  They  were  variations  and  ex- 
pansions of  that  old  hope  first  communicated  to 
ma  in  the  Lynnn  Hall  garden — that  one  day  he 
v.ould  have  a  wife  and  children  to  love  and  l)e 
loved  by.  He  particularly  enjoined  me  not  to 
let  Etty  read  or  guess  the  contents  of  these 
sheets.  It  was  too  soon,  he  said,  for  her  to 
know  her  elders  entertained  such  thoughts.  In 
this  I  fully  concurred ;  and  I  liked  Julian  all  the 


better  for  wishing  to  confine  to  our  breasts  the 
delicious  secret — which  only  two  hearts  should 
know — the  secret  which  even  he  only  vaguely 
indicated  to  his  solitary  confidante !  It  was  con- 
siderate to  Etty,  delicate  to  me,  and  chivalric  in 
himself,  that  he  was  so  particular  on  this  point. 

And  days  passed  on — swiftly  and  happily,  with 
seed-time  and  harvest,  in  the  fat  and  sleepy  corn 
country. 

At  the  end  of  twelve  months  Julian  Gower 
came  down  from  Northumberland  for  a  visit  of 
three  days.  He  could  not  stop  longer,  for  his 
duties  at  Shorton  were  urgent,  and  the  time 
spent  in  traveling  from  the  Tyne  to  the  South 
consumed  the  chief  part  of  his  short  holidays. 
During  those  days  he  was  altogether  with  us, 
save  at  nights  when  he  ran  over  the  country  to 
Beechey  ;  and  Etty  seemed  to  enjoy  his  company 
not  less  than  I  did.  Of  that  I  was  very  glad ; 
for  I  loved  Julian  Gower,  and  I  wanted  all  who 
cared  for  me  to  love  him  also.  Yes,  I  loved  him 
— with  all  the  intensity  and  purity  of  a  woman's 
love.  The  time  was  when  I  dared  not  say  this 
— when  to  acknowledge  it  would  have  brought 
ruby  shame  into  my  cheeks  and  humiliation  to 
my  eyes.  But  that  time  was  long  since.  And 
now  I  write  with  exultant  pride — I  loved  Julian 
Gower  with  all  my  heart,  and  soul,  and  strength. 

Again  Julian  left  us. 

Again  the  sunny,  yellow  harvest-tide  came 
round. 

And  Mith  it  came  again  Julian  Gower. 


.   BOOK    II. 

JULIAN  GOWEPw :  BEING  WRITTEN  BY  MR.  JULIAN  GOWER,  AT 
THE  REQUEST  OF  THE  REV.  SOLOMON  EASY'S  GRAND-DAUGH- 
TER TABITHA. 

first  time  were  less  inclined  to  credit  me  with 
good  qualities  and  efiicient  abilities.  And  they 
were  justified  in  to  a  certain  extent  mistrusting 
me.  Confidence  is  a  plant  of  slow  growth,  and 
a  young  man  ought  not  to  be  angry  because  he 
docs  not  find  it  full-grown,  in  blossom,  and 
ready  for  him  to  pluck  in  strange  breasts,  be 
they  old  or  young. 

Among  the  good  and  beneficial  accidents  of 
my  life,  for  which  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  the 
Disposer  of  all  human  events,  I  hold  it  foremost 
that  in  my  youth  I  was  brought  up  and  educated 
in  the  country  among  simple  and  honest  people, 
gentle  in  their  natures,  and  pure  in  their  habits 
— conscientious  and  devout.  If  in  my  course 
through  life  I  have  been  enabled  to  attach  men 
to  me,  and  influence  them  on  some  occasions  for 
the  better,  I  attribute  it  to  a  sound  knowledge 
of  ordinary  everyday  human  nature,  acquired  by 
thorough  "familiarity  in  early  life  with  a  few 
honest  persons,  mingling  with  each  other  in  all 
candor,  and  without  concealment  or  pretension, 
as  the  members  of  a  rural  society  are  more  like- 
Iv  than  the  inhabitants  of  cities  to  mingle  witli 
each  other.  The  circumstances  of  life  in  an 
agricultural  district  arc,  I  think,  favorablt  to 
honesty — the  moral  infiucncc  being  strong;  and 
vciy  observant  person  knowing  thoroughly  the 


CHAPTER  I. 

BIRTH,    PARENTAGK,    ETC. 

Having  been  requested  by  the  Rev.  Solomon 
Easy's  grand-daughter  Tabitha  to  write  a  brief 
account  of  certain  specified  occurrences  in  my 
life,  I  consent  to  do  so,  only  stipulating  that  no- 
thing I  here  write  shall  be  in  any  way  altered 
either  by  herself,  or  by  any  person  to  whom  she 
may  hereafter  intrust  its  publication.  JMy  pur- 
suits have  never  led  me  to  encourage  any  literary 
faculty  I  may  possess,  and  my  contribution  to 
her  collection  of  memoirs  may  consequently  be 
very  faulty.  But  I  like  things  to  be  genuine. 
Whenever  I  read  a  document,  or  hear  a  s])eech, 
I  like  to  feel  assured  that  my  mind  is  receiving 
the  genuine  thoughts  of  the  writer  or  orator, 
without  subtraction,  addition,  or  superficial 
spurious  adornment  of  any  kind.  I  have,  there- 
fore, laid  a  particular  injunction  on  the  lady  not 
to  dress  up  or  smooth  down  my  communication 
to  her. 

I  am  at  the  present  day  not  unknown,  but  I 

v.as  once  an  obscure  young  man — industrious 

and  well-intentioned,  but  poor.     It  is  of  myself 

at  th^  time  that  I  was  an  obscure  young  man 

thai  [  am  going  to  speak.     I  was  as  strong  and 

healthy,  and  in  every  way  respectable  a  man  ^ 

tlicn  as  I  am  now,  but  those  who  met  me  for  the  1  histories  and  actions  of  his  neighbors,  and  being 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


21 


aware  that  his  history  and  actions  arc  in  like 
manner  known. 

My  father  was  an  officer  in  the  East  India 
Company's  army,  and  was  the  son  of  a  well-to- 
do  London  merchant.  He  married  a  pretty 
girl,  the  daughter  of  a  farmer  in  "the  corn 
country,"  oftending  in  some  sliglit  measure  his 
family  by  tlie  step.  They  thought  a  farmer's 
daughter  beneath  them,  and  frankly  told  my  fa- 
ther so.  He  with  equal  frankness  retorted  that 
he  wanted  neither  their  criticisms  nor  their  ap- 
proval ;  and  then  went  his  way  to  the  East, 
taking  liis  bride  with  him.  In  three  years  he 
and  my  motiier  had  passed  from  this  world, 
leaving  me  and  my  younger  brother  to  the  good- 
will of  our  relations  and  tlie  protection  of  that 
noble  institution — the  old  East  India  Comjiany. 

My  father's  relations  did  not  i)ay  me  and  my 
brother  much  attention.  I  can  not  altogether 
blame  them  for  keeping  us  at  a  distance.  They 
were  rich,  we  were  poor.  It  is  certainly  xevy 
disagreeable  for  prosperous  and  fashionable  peo- 
ple to  be  surrounded  and  pounced  on  by  jwor 
kindred.  It  would  have  been  chivalrie  if  my 
fiither's  brother  and  his  set  had  made  more 
friendly  advances  to  us.  But  they  didn't.  And 
it  would  unquestionably  have  been  petty  and 
mean  if  we  on  our  parts  had  nursed  any  thing 
like  heart-burning  for  the  slight.  We  did  no 
such  thing.  Our  grand  nncle,  and  splendid 
aunt,  and  exquisite  cousins  grew,  as  we  ap- 
proaclied  3'ears  of  discretion,  to  be  subjects  of 
joke  with  vis,  our  boyish  tempers  not  being  em- 
bittered by  the  knowledge  that  in  tlic  composi- 
tion of  the  family  statue  we  were  the  clay  and 
not  the  gilding. 

ISIy  brother  Monkton  and  I  were  sent  do-\vn  to 
"the  corn  country"  to  pass  our  childhood  in  the 
house  of  a  bachelor  uncle  (on  my  mother's  side) 
— a  small  tenant-farmer,  who  never  in  all  his 
days  wore  a  coat  that'  was  not  made  of  fustian, 
or  a  waistcoat  was  not  a  red  one.  The  farm- 
servants  lived  in  the  same  room,  and  fed  off  the 
same  bacon  and  dumplings,  with  us.  This  cus- 
tom no  longer  exists  in  the  corn  country,  and  in 
the  face  of  glib  gentlemen  who  are  severe  on  the 
gross  sensuality  and  crass  ignorance  of  farmers 
in  tlie  good  old  time,  and  who  maintain  that 
every  thing  was  corrupt  and  abominable  in  the 
good  old  time,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  lament  that 
this  usage  has  expired.  The  increased  personal 
refinement  of  the  wealthier  of  the  humbler  classes 
tells  against  the  well-being  of  tlie  humblest  class 
of  all.  A  farmer  and  his  daughters  would  now- 
adays find  the  society  of  servants  unpalatable. 
I  don't  at  all  blame  them  for  it — I  only  state  tlie 
fact.  They  keep  themselves  to  themselves,  and 
only  approach  their  menials  and  workmen  to 
order,  supervise,  scold,  or  pay  them  money.  But 
fifty  years  since  agricultural  workmen,  sitting  at 
board  with  their  social  superiors,  had  a  better 
and  more  humanizing  time  of  it  tiian  they  have 
now.  They  heard  tlieir  masters  and  mistresses 
gossip  about  the  affairs  of  the  neighborhood,  the 
news  of  the  papers,  the  business  and  amusements 
of  tlie  .markets  and  county  town.  They  were 
thus  raised  a  grade — perhai)S  only  a  trifling  one, 
but  Still  a  grade — above  their  servile  cares,  and 
drawn  into  harmonious  action  with  those  above 
them.  Masters  nowadays  prate  about  human- 
izing and  ameliorating  the  lower  orders,  and 
hope  to  achieve  their  object  by  feasting  their 


servants  once  a  year,  or  preaching  to  them  once 
a  month.  Fifty  years  since,  these  masters  would 
have  lived  with  their  servants,  and  carved  for 
them  daily.  Many  of  my  friends  tell  me  I  am  u 
little  mad  on  this  subject,  and  that  I  lose  my 
common  sense  when  1  begin  to  talk  about  the 
good  old  times.  Perhaps  they  are  right.  All 
I  can  say  is — I  wish  to  remain  in  the  wrong. 

Living  at  Becchey  in  the  holidays,  Monkton 
and  I  spent  the  greater  ))ortion  of  our  days  at 
Laughton,  as  boarders  at  the  Laughton  Gram- 
mar School  —  playing  cricket  in  the  park  of 
Laughton  Abbey,  and  bathing  or  skating  (ac- 
cording to  the  seasons)  in  or  on  "the  Abbey 
water."  A  very  good  education  we  got  there, 
in  company  with  forty  or  fifty  other  lads — sons 
of  the  richer  farmers  and  the  ])etty  gentry  of  the 
district.  Tlie  head-master  was  a  clergyman, 
and  a  very  learned  man.  If  I  recollect  rightly 
he  wrote  a  Greek  treatise,  proving  that  Eve  and 
Semiramis  were  the  same.  I  know  he  professed 
the  most  awful  opinions ;  but  as  he  never  pro- 
mulgated them  save  in  a  learned  language  he 
did  no  one  any  harm,  and  never  shocked  public 
opinion.  I  know  also  that  he  was  ])Ositively 
terrific  in  his  use  of  the  birch.  People  tell  us 
nowadays  that  the  birch  was  one  of  the  degrad- 
ing engines  and  abominable  contrivances  of  the 
good  old  time,  and  that  its  use  in  oiw  public 
schools  breaks  down  the  dignity  and  independ- 
ence and  all  that  sort  of  thing  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  boy.  Fudge! — it  certainly  never  de- 
graded Monkton ;  and  I  don't  believe  it  de- 
graded me.  And  as  for  the  doctor — he  was  no 
barbarian.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  dined  with  him 
twenty  j'ears  after  I  left  school,  and  found  him 
a  very  fine  old  fellow  with  most  courtly  man- 
ners. 

Our  pensions  from  the  E.  I.  C.  paid  the  school- 
bills  and  furnished  us  with  oitr  wardrobes.  In 
the  holidays  our  honest  uncle  gave  us  bed  and 
board  at  Beeehey ;  and  about  once  in  two  years 
we  were  had  up  to  London  to  stay  in  a  big  house 
in  Russell  Square  with  our  "grand  relatives."  i 
A  pretty  time  we  used  to  have  of  it  with  my 
magnificeut  aunt !  She  used  to  deplore  our  bad 
manners — confound  her  !  she  didn't  mend  them  ! 
She  used  to  laugh  at  the  outrageously  bad  make 
of  our  clothes — confotmd  her  !  her  money  never 
l)ought  us  better !  Then  our  cotisins,  just  oixi* 
own  ages,  used  by  turns  to  fight  shy  of  us,  or 
snub  us  with  the  information  that  we  "should 
have  to  work  for  our  living."  Poor  little  blood- 
less creatures,  it  was  a  precious  good  job  for 
them  that  they  hadn't  to  work  for  theirs !  So 
]jerfectly  disgusted  were  Monkton  and  I  with 
the  tone  of  society  in  Russell  Square  that  I  do 
verily  believe  wo,  at  the  early  ages  of  twelve  and 
ten,  should  have  stuck  down  at  Beeche}',  and 
"cut"  our  magnificent  relatives,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  fun  of  the  theatres,  and  the  ride  on 
the  stage-coach  up  to  town,  and  the  stupendous 
and  very  novel  dishes  we  got  on  party  nights. 

On  the  whole,  it  was  just  as  well  that  we  did 
not  cut  my  uncle.  For  in  a  certain  sort  of  in- 
solent way  he  did  look  out  for  our  interests ;  and 
just  as  j\Ionkton  was  entering  on  his  siixteenth 
year  (I  being  two  years  younger)  he  procured  r 
the  lad  a  commission  in  the  Bengal  Native  In- 
fantry. 

It  was  a  sad  day  for  me  when  Monkton  start- 
ed for  India,  full  of  heroic  resolves,  and  wonder- 


22 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


ing  how  long  he  would  have  to  wait  for  a  mus- 
tache. 
I  Poor  fellow  !    I  never  saw  him  again ! 

His  absence  greatly  altered  Laughton  school 
and  "the  corn  country"  to  me.  I  was  at  first 
very  unhappy  for  want  of  him,  although  my 
importance  was  increased  at  school  by  having  a 
brother  "an  officer." 


CPL\PTER  II. 


AT  SCHOOL. 


I  PELL  in  love  when  I  was  seventeen.  Most 
lads  of  seventeen  years,  when  they  fall  in  love, 
fix  their  aifections  on  middle-aged  women.  I 
didn't.  My  first  luve  was  a  young  lady — the 
grand-daughter  of  the  Reverend  Solomon  Easy, 
Gerent  of  Earnham  Cobb  College,  Vicar  of  Farn- 
liam  Cobb,  and  owner  of  Sandhill,  a  bad  farm 
iu  the  corn  country. 

How  I  first  came  to  know  the  Reverend  Sol- 
omon Easy,  and  be  received  iu  Earnham  Cobb 
College  as  one  of  the  vicar's  family,  deserves 
narration.  It  was  in  my  first  half-year  at  Laugh- 
ton  Grammar  School.  The  boys  were  returning 
from  cricket  in  the  Abbey  Park,  marching  uj) 
the  Higt  Street  in  a  long  trooj),  bearing  bats  and 
balls.  I  was  at  the  tail  of  the  army,  lagging  be- 
hind under  a  burden  of  wickets,  about  ten  yards 
in  the  rear  of  the  boy  next  in  front  of  myself. 
I  was  not  so  big  then  as  I  am  now;  my  legs 
could  not  get  over  the  ground  so  quickly  as  those 
of  the  other  boys  ;  and,  moreover,  1  had  to  bear 
a  load,  that  was  not  an  affair  of  indifterence 
to  a  little  boy.  I  don't  mention  these  facts  as 
{grounds  of  complaint:  far  from  it.  I  was  the 
smallest  boy  in  the  school ;  it  was  therefore  quite 
right  that  I  should  carry  the  six  stumps  and  a 
man's-size  bat  on  my  shoulders.  Tomkins  was 
six  feet  high,  and  the  biggest  and  oldest  boy  in 
the  school ;  it  was  therefoi-e  quite  right  that  he 
should  only  be  required  to  carry  the  bails  in  the 
pocket  of  his  fiannel  jacket.  The  arrangement 
was  a  fit  and  beneficial  one.  It  prepared  me  for 
the  rules  of  the  larger  and  sterner  world  outside 
the  school-gates,  wliero  labor  is  the  duty  of  the 
3'oung,  and  relaxation  is  the  privilege  of  the  old. 

"  How  old  are  you,  my  little  fellow?"  inquired 
a  strange  voice  behind  me. 

Before  answering  I  turned  round  to  examine 
my  questioner. 

"just  seven  years  old.  Sir,"  I  then  replied, 
seeing  by  his  style,  which  strongly  prepossessed 
inc  in  his  favor,  that  lie  was  a.  gentleman,  and 
consequently  was  guilty  of  no  impertinence  in 
accosting  me.  At  that  early  age  I  had  an  enor- 
mous notion  of  mj'  own  dignity. 

"Dear  me,  just  poor  little  Tibby's  agel"  ]nit 
in  my  interlocutor,  whom  from  his  dress  I  mark- 
ed down  as  a  clergyman.  "You  must  be  the 
Fmallest  boy  in  the  school." 

"  I  can't  help  thai,  Sir,"  I  answered.  "  I  can 
run  faster  than  a  good  many  of  them." 

"Don't  you  find  your  load  too  much  for 
you?"' 

"  Dear  me,  nc) !  I  could  carry  a  hundred  times 
as  much.  Sir,"  I  answered  respectfully,  but  with 
a  flash  of  pride. 

The  clergyman  (he  was  an  elderly  man)  was 
clearly  pleased  witli  my  answei',  for  he  laughed, 


and  when  he  had  done  laughing,  asked,  "  "What's 
your  name,  my  fine  little  fellow?" 

This  inquiry  seemed  to  me  exactly  of  a  piece 
with  all  the  rest  of  his  impudence,  and  I  thought 
of  resenting  it  as  I  looked  up  at  him  archly  ;  but 
he  was  so  kind  and  jolly  a  gentleman  to  regard, 
and,  moreover,  spoke  so  politely  to  me,  that  I  an- 
swered, civilly,  "  Julian  Gower,  Sir." 

"Gower — Gower?  Julian  Gower?  To  be 
sure,  you  have  an  imcle,  a  farmer,  who  lives  at 
Beechey  ?" 

"  Beechey  is  my  home." 

"  Ay,  I  shoot  over  your  uncle's  farm  every 
year. " 

"Do  you,  Sir?"  I  rejoined.  And  then  put- 
ting in  a  word  for  my  honest  uncle's  interests,  I 
added,  "He's  particularly  fond  of  jugged  hare." 

The  gentleman  laughed  outright  at  this,  and 
patted  me  on  the  head.  I  could  not  for  the  life 
of  me  see  what  there  was  in  my  simple  intima- 
tion to  tickle  him  so  immensely. 

"I  knew  your  mother,  my  little  friend,  before 
she  married  ;  and  she  was,  in  her  day,  the  pret- 
tiest girl  all  the  country  round." 

"I  am  glad  of  that." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  never  heard  she  was  pretty  before, 
and  I  like  to  know  it.  But,  Sir,  I  must  be  run- 
ning on,  or  I  shall  get  shut  out,  and  then  there'll 
be  a  rov,-."' 

"  Bless  me,  my  dear  young  friend,"  cried  the 
gentleman,  in  a  voice  of  alarm,  as  if  he  had  a 
lively  appreciation  of  what  the  "row"  might  be, 
"don't  let  me  get  you  into  trouble.  Here  be 
oft',  but  oblige  me  by  taking  this." 

He  oft'cred  me  half  a  crown. 

"No,  I  thank  you.  Sir,"  I  replied,  drawing 
back  and  turning  scarlet,  as  I  declined  to  accept 
the  tip. 

"Why,"  said  the  gentleman,  with  a  look  of 
ovei-jjowering  sui-prise,  "whv  won't  you  take 
it?" 

"Because  I  don't  know  you.  Sir." 

"A  capital  reason,  I  declare,"  exclaimed  my 
com]3anion,  warmly;  "an  excellent  distinction, 
an  admirable  rule  for  a  school-boy !  You  don"t 
know  me — but  I'll  enter  my  pig-tail  at  New- 
market races  if  you  sha'n't  know  me." 

AVith  these  words  the  gentleman  abruptly 
turned  away  into  the  yard  of  the  principal  inn 
in  the  High  Street ;  and  I,  running  at  the  top  of 
my  speed,  overtook  my  school-fellows  just  as  they 
were  jiassing  "through  gates,"  as  we  used  to 
term  it. 

On  getting  into  the  play-ground  I  immediate- 
ly sought  out  my  elder  brother  and  loyally  con- 
fided to  him  the  particulars  of  this  inteiwiew.  I 
had  a  great  respect  for  Monkton.  He  used  to 
thrash  me  every  now  and  then,  when  I  was  cocky 
and  required  to  be  taken  down  a  peg  or  two ;  so 
I  looked  up  to  him  with  a  kind  of  filiiil  awe. 
At  the  same  time  he  never  permitted  any  boy  he 
could  thrash  to  molest  me.  He  appeared  to  me 
therefore  in  the  light  of  a  protector. 

"It's  a,  Jind,"  said  Monkton,  sententiously, 
when  I  had  come  to  the  end  of  my  storj-. 

' '  What  do  you  mean  by  '  a  find  ?'  "  I  asked, 
childishly,  for  I  w.as  then  so  new  to  school-life 
that  I  did  not  understand  some  of  the  simplest 
expressions. 

"  Something'll  come  of  it,"  explained  Monk- 
ton. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


23 


"What  sort  of  thing,  Monkton ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  should  say  he'll  ask  you  to  his  house, 
and  send  you  oceans  of  '  badgers!'  " 

At  Laughton  Grammar  School  hampers  of 
prog  were  called  badgers. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  you're  right,  Monkton,"  I 
answered,  glowing  with  the  thought  of  the  hos- 
pitality I  would  exercise  to  every  body  in  the 
box- room. 

"But,  young'un,"  added  Monkton,  with  an 
air  of  parental  authority  and  grave  worldly  wis- 
dom, ' '  I  advise  you  to  keep  this  to  yourself.  I 
sha'n't  speak  about  it,  and  you'd  better  not. 
You  see,  perhaps  Tomkins  might  not  like  it." 

"Why  shouldn't  he?" 

"Well,  your  orders  were  to  carry  tlie  stumps 
and  the  bat,  not  to  talk  to  gentlemen  in  the  Higli 
Street ;  and  perhaps  Tomkins  mayn't  like  it. 
He  is  very  kind,  but  still  he  is  captain  of  the 
school,  and  you  were  out  of  orders. " 

"Thank  you,  Monkton." 

My  dear  brother  had  a  lively  veneration  for 
all  constituted  authorities;   so  have  I. 

Monkton  was  right.  Something  did  come  of 
it.  There  was  a  regulation  at  Laughton  Gram- 
mar School,  permitting  boarders  to  visit  their 
friends  on  Saturdays,  stopping  out  all  Sunday, 
and  returning  early  on  jNIonday.  This  consid- 
erate arrangement  had  never  as  vet  brought 
good  either  to  me  or  my  brother,  for  we  had  no 
intimate  friends  in  the  corn  country  Mfe  my 
uncle,  and  Beechey  was  too  far  from  Laughton 
for  him  to  think  of  having  us  home  for  so  short 
a  time  as  a  day  and  two  nights. 

The  Saturday  next  succeeding  my  adventure 
saw  me  called  into  "  the  doctor's"  study  to  "sec 
a  gentleman."  My  heart  beat  high,  and  I  felt 
sure  who  "the  gentleman"  was  ;  and  I  was  right 
in  my  conjecture,  for  on  entering  the  doctor's 
awe-inspiring  sanctum  "the  gentleman"  (who 
turned  out  to  be  the  Reverend  Solomon  liasy) 
shook  me  by  the  hand. 

"Gower,  Secundus,"  observed  the  doctor, 
smiling  at  me  with  polite  benevolence,  "you 
were  quite  right  to  decline  the  half-crown  this 
gentleman  kindly  offered  you.  I  approve  your 
conduct,  and  believe  you'll  turn  out  a  gentleman 
when  you  grow  up." 

The  doctor's  speech  pleased  me  so  much  that 
I  loved  him  heartily  for  about  five  minutes,  and 
hoped  it  would  never  be  his  painful  duty  to  flog 
me. 

The  next  communication  made  to  me  was 
that  Mr.  Easy  had,  with  my  uncle's  approval, 
invited  me  to  Farnham  Cobb,  and  that  I  was 
forthwith  to  get  myself  ready  for  a  drive  to  that 
charming  locality. 


CHAPTER  III.  . 

THE    CO.VL    COUNTRY. 

MoKivfoN  went  only  twice  to  Farnham  Cobb, 
though  he  obtained  like  me  a  general  invitation 
to  visit  the  College.  He  disdained  little  Tabitha 
Easy,  thought  the  Reverend  Solomon  Easy  a 
"slow  coach,"  and  (notwithstanding  frequent 
and  regular  arrivals  of  badgers  at  the  "school," 
directed  by  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Skettle,  the  house- 
keeper at  Farnham  Cobb  College)  maintained 
that  my  strangely-found  acquaintance  was  after 


all  no  "very  particular  find."  Of  Mrs.  Skettle 
he  used  to  speak  in  the  most  disrespectful  man- 
ner, calling  her  "Old  Mother  Nightcap,"  and 
"Old  Mrs.  Brown  Dumj)ling."  Monkton  was 
such  a  capital  fellow  in  all  other  respects  that  1 
knew  how  to  construe  his  conduct  on  this  point. 
He  honorably  regarded  Farnham  Cobb  as  "rwy 
find."  Indeed  he  once  spoke  of  the  College  as 
"Julian's  preserve;"  and  he  in  his  usual  fine-  ' 
spirited  way  resolved  not  to  poach  on  my  prop- 
erty. And  then,  to  disguise  his  generous  pur- 
pose, he  put  on  a  lot  of  supercilious  contempt  for 
"ugly  little  chits"  and  "frumpy  old  women." 

As  for  me,  I  became  warmly  attached  to  my 
friends  at  Farnham  Cobb ;  and,  when  Monkton 
went  off" to  India,  "the  College"  became  almost 
as  nuicii  my  home  as  Beechey.  Tibby  and  I 
were  just  of  one  age.  So  in  the  holidays  we  , 
were  always  together.  In  all  little  matters  we 
had  no  secrets  from  each  other.  In  close  league 
we  read,  played,  birdsnested,  made  fire-works, 
fished,  hunted  rats,  and  were  up  to  all  sorts  of 
mischief.  Indeed,  we  did  every  thing  that  boy 
and  girl  could  with  propriety  do,  except  fall  in 
love  with  each  other. 

To  love  little  Tibby  never  entered  my  head  in 
those  days  as  possible  for  me  or  any  other  human 
creature.  She  was  very  tigly  as  well  as  small. 
Of  that  there  w.as  no  doubt.  When  Monkton 
told  me  she  was  "an  ugly  little  chit,"  I  could 
only  respond  \vith  a  sarcasm  to  the  eflfect  that 
he  "wasn't  so  wonderfully  good-looking  as  one 
could  see  he  thought  himself."  White-faced, 
diminutive,  with  a  large  mouth,  and  eyes  not 
set  quite  straight  in  her  head,  she  was  a  queer 
little  object  when  I  first  beheld  her.  As  she 
grew  toward  womanhood  her  eyes  came  right,  — ■ 
as  far  as  position  was  concerned,  and  the  mis- 
proportion  of  her  mouth  to  the  rest  of  her  face 
disa])peared ;  but  she  was  still  plain.  On  re- 
turning home  from  Bridgeham  School  she  was 
delicately  neat  in  her  costume,  had  a  slight  and 
piquant  figure,  small  white  hands,  and  a  coun- 
tenance that,  for  expressing  sheer  amiability  and 
quick  intelligence,  beat  all  countenances  I  had 
ever  seen  then  and  have  ever  seen  since.  But 
all  the  same  for  that,  she  was  decidedly  plain. 
Nothing  could  alter  that.  Her  brown  eyebrows 
had  a  few  white  hairs  in  them,  and  her  eyes, 
when  she  was  excited,  had  a  strange  uncertainty 
of  color  that  at  times  was  uncomfortable  to  re- 
gard. 

As  a  little  girl  she  was  to  me  all  that  a  school- 
boy would  nowadays  designate  as  "  a  brick  of  a 
girl."  On  reaching  womanhood  she  fulfilled  my 
"ideal"  of  goodness.  I  write  this  gravely  and 
with  deliberation.  She  will  read  it  and  learn 
nothing  new  from  it,  for  she  is  well  aware  in 
what  estimation  I  ever  held  and  still  hold  her. 
I  never  knew  any  one  so  habitually  cheerful  and 
considerate  of  other  persons'  feelings.  She  was 
the  most  thoroughly  unseifish  girl  that  ever 
breathed. 

Why  then  did  I  not,  as  a  school-boy,  fall  in 
love  with  her?  . 

Simply  because  she  hadn't  beauty.  It  was  ' 
part  of  my  constitution  to  overvalue  physical 
loveliness.  The  same  defect  of  judgment,  al- 
though I  well  know  it  to  be  a  grave  source  of 
error,  still  influences  me.  I  never  look  from 
under  my  iron-gray  curls  and  through  the  crow's- 
feet  pucker  of  my  eyelids  at  a  pretty  woman 


24 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


without  immediately  setting  her  down  as  a  good 
woman,  and  romancing  about  her  accordingly. 
If  I  had  known  Tibby  less  intimately,  the  con- 
vei-se  of  this  sentiment  would  doubtless  have  held 
sway  over  the  poetry  of  my  life,  and  I  should 
have  construed  an  absence  of  beauty  as  an  ab- 
sence of  virtue,  and  have  seen  in  physical  de- 
formity the  outward  clothing  of  a  feeble  or  vi- 
cious nature.  Tibby,  however,  saved  m.c  from 
this  mistake.  Whenever,  as  a  young  man,  I 
saw  plain  women,  and  (owing  to  the  fault  of  my 
nature)  was  on  the  point  of  judging  them  un- 
charitably or  unjustly,  I  remembered  my  old 
playmate  Tibby,  and  saved  myself  from  making 
a  mistake. 

Still  I  didn't  fall  in  love  with  Tibby  Tree  when 
I  was  a  school-boy,  as  I  unquestionably  should 
have  done  had  she  l)ecn  pretty. 

I  did  not  lose  my  heart  till  I  was  seventeen 
years  old,  and  then  I  was  a  school-boy  no  longer. 

At  the  close  of  my  sixteenth  year  my  rich 
uncle  in  London  settled  my  vocation  in  life.  A 
friend  of  his  in  the  North  had  a  mining  connec- 
tion, and.  persuaded  him  that  the  best  field  ojten 
to  a  poor  lad,  with  his  way  to  make  for  himself 
in  the  world,  and  anxious  to  acquire  wealth, 
was  the  vocation  of  a  viewer  or  superintendent 
of  the  operations  connected  with  the  interior 
working  of  mines.  My  rich  uncle's  friend  was 
not  very  wrong.  From  time  immemorial  min- 
ing engineers  had  been  either  self-taught,  or  else 
altogether  ignorant  men.  The  body,  of  whom 
Trevithiek  was  one,  of  course  comprised  men  of 
intellect  and  wonderful  ingenuity ;  but  in  too 
many  cases  the  Cornish  "captain"  and  the 
Northumbrian  "viewer"  were  stupid  blockheads, 
through  whose  inefficiency  speculators  lost  an- 
nually a  prodigious  amount  of  money.  The 
time  had  come  for  a  superior  class  of  mining 
agents — men  of  education,  familiar  with  the  re- 
cent discoveries  in  chemistry  and  geology,  as 
well  as  acquainted  with  the  purely  practical  part 
of  their  business. 

My  uncle  therefore  wrote  me  a  brief  note,  an- 
nouncing that  at  the  end  of  the  next  three  months 
he  proposed  apprenticing  me  to  Mr.  Clout,  a 
mine  viewer  near  Newcastle. 

I  can  not  say  the  announcement  altogether 
pleased  me.  The  son  of  an  officer  in  the  Indian 
army,  and  with  a  brother  in  the  same  service,  I 
had  hoj)ed  that  a  more  gentlemanly  career  would 
be  proposed  to  me.  In  fact,  I  deemed  the  voca- 
tion beneath  my  rank.  Such  folly,  I  trust,  may 
be  pardoned  in  a  boy. 

My  uncle  was  firm.  His  plan  was  to  be  ac- 
ceded to,  or  his  countenance  would  be  forfeited. 
For  suc^h  a  i)ursuit  lie  would  forward  the  money 
required  for  the  premium,  and  also  would  make 
me  such  an  allowance  that  I  should  be  able  to 
live  and  learn,  until  I  should  be  able  to  live  by 
my  own  work.  For  any  other  object  he  would 
aid  me  neither  with  counsel  nor  a  five-pound 
note. 

In  short,  it  was  the  only  opening  offered  mc, 
for  my  honest  uncle,  the  farmer  at  Becchey, 
could  do  nothing  for  me.  His  purse  was,  like 
his  heart,  open  to  me  ;  but  unlike  his  heart,  there 
was  nothing  of  value  in  it.  His  farm  was  poor 
in  quality  and  liigii  in  rent,  just  such  an  occupa- 
tion as  the  application  of  ab;indMiit  capital  alone 
could  turn  to  profit;  and  he,  kind  num,  had 
year  after  year  to  borrow  from  the  bank  the 


money  he  needed  to  get  his  harvest  in.  I  found 
out  that  this  was  the  case  just  as  my  Uncle 
Gowcr  made  me  his  offer.  I  need  not  say  that 
the  discovery  gave  me  another  inducement  to 
accc]it  that  offer.  I  hoped  to  save  a  little  from 
my  rich  uncle's  .allowance  to  repay  my  matern- 
al uncle  at  Beechcy  some  of  the  money  his  hos- 
])itality  to  me  and  my  brother  had  taken  from 
his  needy  exchequer.  It  is  a  source  of  lively 
gratification  to  mo  to  reflect  that  this  hope  was 
fulfilled,  and  that,  aided  by  Monkton,  who  sent 
me  an  annual  slice  of  his  pay,  I  managed  to 
make  the  last  years  of  my  dear  uncle's  life  as 
comfortable  as  ever  they  had  been  ;  in  fact,  to 
keep  him  in  the  farm  at  Beechey  till  the  day  of 
his  death. 

I  was  fortunate  in  being  allowed  a  clear 
month's  holiday  every  year  during  my  appren- 
ticeship. This  month  1  devoted  to  a  trip  to  the 
"corn  country."  The  expenses  of  the  journey 
made  a  great  hole  into  my  income,  but  it  was 
the  only  expense  I  indulged  in  for  purely  per- 
sonal gratification.  In  dress,  clothing,  and  liv- 
ing I  was  economical  even  to  parsimony.  Even 
a  glass  of  beer  or  "yell,"  as  they  call  it  in  the 
Northern  coal  field,  was  a  rarely  permitted  lux- 
ury in  my  diet. 

At  first  my  Nortlinmberland  experiences  were 
in  cruel  contrast  to  my  ])revious  habits.  Liking 
con ntat  sports  and  country  scenery,  I  had  to 
consuiP  the  freshness  of  my  days  in  dark  coal 
mines.  Trim  and  fastidious  as  to  personal  clean- 
liness and  to  costume,  I  had  daily  to  dress  my^- 
self  like  a  ragged  ruffian,  and  spend  hours  in 
tiie  slush  and  grime  and  distressing  atmos- 
phere of  the  subterranean  fields.  As  for  so- 
ciety, I  had  for  years  literally  none,  save  that 
of]jitmen,  engine-wrights,  and  clerks.  The  work 
also,  separated  from  its  surrounding  conditions, 
was  not  to  my  taste.  It  was  drudgery  and  no- 
thing else.  At  first  I  couldn't  get  on  with  the 
pitmen,  whom  I  was  naturally  anxious  to  attach 
to  me.  They  suspected  me  of  incompetence  and 
unamiable.  qualities,  because  I  was  "fram  the 
Sooth."     In  short,  I  had  a  hard  life  of  it. 

But  amidst  all  my  trials  there  was  one  bright 
point.  I  could  look  forward  to  my  next ' '  month's 
visit"  in  the  autumn  to  "the  corn  country."  I 
had  another  source  of  happiness,  and  let  rae 
graitefally  acknowledge  it.  Dear  Tibby  wrote 
to  me  regularly — such  letters,  such  pictures  of 
domestic  humor  and  gossip  and  felicity,  as  I 
don't  believe  any  other  woman  ever  penned ! 
No  wonder  that  "  the  corn  country"  and  all  per- 
taining to  it — the  old  school  at  Laughton,  the 
old  farm  at  Becchey,  the  old  houses  at  Farnham 
Cobb,  the  old  faces  that  turned  loving  eyes  on 
my  boyhood — had  for  me  singular  fascinations. 
I  don't  profess  to  be  a  man  of  fine  feelings ;  I 
am  a  banker,  and  a  member  of  Parliament.  I 
am  no  poet.  *  I  am  a  practical  man,  and  no 
"idealist,"  as  they  nowadays  term  it  in  maga- 
zines ;  but  I  do  thank  God  with  hearty  gratitude 
that  in  the  days  when  I  toiled  in  the  black  dust 
and  the  black  mud  of  the  coal  field  I  could  not 
think  of  "the  corn  country" — of  "home,"  as  I 
used  to  call  it — without  being  inclined  to  put  my 
grimed  coat-cuffs  up  to  my  eyes. 

It  was  in  n/y  first  autumn  visit  to  "the  corn 
country"  after  the  commencement  of  my  a]iprcn- 
ticeship  that  I  fell  in  love.  I  had  come  down 
via  London,  where  I  spent  six  hours  in  walking 


OLIVE  i3LAKES  GOOD  WORK. 


25 


to  look  at  Apsley  House  (in  those  da3's  I  never 
visited  London  without  indulging  myself  with  a 
look  at  the  outside  of  "the  Duke's"  town  resi- 
dence), and  visiting  my  relations  in  Kussell 
Square.  My  aunt  was  "not  at  home,"  but  I 
saw  my  uncle,  who  expressed  a  wish  that  I 
sliould  "leave  a  card"  on  his  wife  whenever  I 
was  in  town.  Of  course  I  scrupulously  attend- 
ed to  his  request.  I  had  my  name  engraved  on 
a  plate  of  copper,  and  had  fifty  impressions  struck 
off,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  obeying  him.  I 
thought  that  his  pecuniary  assistance  to  me  de- 
manded tliat  I  should  obey  him.  So  I  spent  a 
few  shillings  on  the  purchase  of  my  first  calling 
cards.  In  the  course  of  the  next  four  years  I 
managed  to  dispose  of  ten  out  of  my  fifty  cards. 
One  I  gave  to  Tibby  as  a  curiosity.  The  other 
nine  I  left  in  Russell  Square.  The  remaining 
forty  I  have  by  me  at  the  present  day. 

I  never  needed  to  leave  a  card  in  "the  corn 
country."  My  friends  there  were  always  "at 
home." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


FIRST    LOVE. 

As  I  have  said  once  or  twice  before,  I  fell  in 
love  when  I  was  seventeen  years  old. 

I  can  not  exactly  account  for  it. 

I  think  tiie  singing  of  birds  in  certain  walnut- 
trees,  the  playing  of  a  southern  breeze  over  a 
bed  of  roses,  and  the  fierce  autumn  sun  bearing 
down  on  a  brick  wall  covered  with  green-gages 
and  nectarines,  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
Any  how,  immediately  before  I  fell  in  love  with 
the  Rev.  Solomon  Easy's  grand-daughter  I  had 
spent  two  hours  in  the  garden  of  Earnham  Cobb 
College. 

I  was  so  young  that  of  course  I  kept  my  folly 
to  myself;  and  she  was  so  young  that  it  would 
have  been  simply  preposterous  to  have  hinted  the 
state  of  my  feelings — I  should  rather  say,  the 
freak  of  m}^  imagination — to  her.  And  under 
the  circumstances  it  would  have  been  gross  in- 
delicacy to  talk  about  my  hopes  to  any  one  else. 
I  therefore  kept  my  own  counsel — almost  entire- 
ly for  seven  long  years,  and  altogether  for  five 
years — witliout  a  hint  to  any  mortal  living. 

With  a  delight,  and  an  awe,  and  an  anxiety  I 
nursed  my  secret,  gazing  at  it  in  the  dark  cav- 
erns of  the  coal  country,  and  fearfully  specula- 
ting on  it  as  a  possibility  of  a  brighter  future. 
The  prospect — in  the  far  distance,  separated  from 
me  tliough  it  was  by  years  of  repulsive  toil  and 
bitter  mortification — which  my  secret  held  out 
to  mc  saved  me  from  despondency  and  sin. 
It  was  (of  course)  a  mere  boyish  sentiment,  a 
dream,  an  absurd  fancy,  a  ridiculous  nothing ; 
but  it  reconciled  me  to  a  hard  lot,  saved  me  from 
the  baneful  influences  of  a  youth  of  disappoint- 
ment, kept  my  heart  fresh,  and  preserved  my 
young  life  from  the  defilement  of  unholy  pleas- 
ures. This  was  something  for  "a  mei^e  boyish 
sentiment"  to  accomplish !  In  these  wise  days, 
when  wisdom  comes  to  men  before  they  get  their 
beards,  and  leaves  them  just  as  they  are  cutting 
their  first  gray  hairs,  I  often  hear  grave  philoso- 
phers of  fivc-and-twenty  laugh  at  the  folly  of 
early  marriages,  and  the  madness  of  those  who 
care  heartily  for  any  thing  that  may  not  be  con- 
verted into  the  Three  per  Cents.     But  I  always 


bluntly  tell  them,  "Boys,  I  like  the  fashion  of 
'the  good  old  time,'  and  if  I  had  my  life  over 
again  I  would  do  exactly  as  I  did  years  back.  I 
would  fall  in  love  at  seventeen,  even  if  I  could 
not  hope  to  marry  till  I  was  forty." 

On  finishing  my  api)rcnticeship  I  obtained  an 
engagement  as  an  under-viewer  in  the  Shorten 
mines — a  property  belonging  to  Mr.  Martin  Or- 
ger,  the  great  Northumbrian  capitalist.  The 
work  of  the  post  was  heavy,  but  the  wages  were 
considerable,  and  Mr.  Martin  Orger  had  helped 
so  many  of  his  efticient  servants  to  higher  ap- 
pointments and  affluence,  that  like  a  sanguine 
youth  I  regarded  my  "first  engagement"  as  a 
decided  step  on  the  road  to  fortune. 

LTnder  these  circumstances  I  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  communicate  a  hint  of  my  se- 
cret to  Tibby,  just  to  see  if  I  was  secure  of  her 
sympatliy.  Being,  therefore,  in  "the  corn  coun- 
try" for  a  few  weeks  previous  to  taking  up  my 
abode  at  Shorton,  I  vaguely  sketched  out  the  sort 
of  future  to  which  my  day-dreams  pointed.  The 
interview  in  which  I  did  this  occurred  in  the 
gardens  of  Lymm  Hall  —  an  old  moated  hall, 
which  several  generations  of  the  Easy  family 
had  possessed. 

From  that  day  I  found  great  pleasure  in  re- 
newing my  hints  and  cautious  intimations  to 
Tibby.  At  Lymm  Hall,  I  know,  I  resolved  nev- 
er again  for  years  to  aiUule  to  the  subject;  and 
I  remember  enjoining  Tibby  that  she  should  not 
induce  me  to  sijeak  more  fully  to  her  till  I  was 
a  richer  man.  But  I  could  not  act  on  this  pru- 
dent decision.  The  letters  I  wrote  to  Tibby  on 
my  return  to  the  North  were  all  more  or  less  col- 
ored by  the  partial  disclosure  I  had  made  to  her. 
My  pen  like  my  thoughts  would  persist  in  run- 
ning to  the  forbidden  topic.  Of  course  I  did 
not  tlirow  aside  all  caution  or  reserve,  for  I  felt 
it  would  be  unkind  and  selfish  and  dishonorable 
to  lead  Tibby  to  commit  herself  to  my  plans,  and 
to  place  her  hopes  upon  them,  Mhen  I  had  no 
sufiicient  grounds  of  confidence  that  I  should  be 
able  to  carry  them  out.  In  my  romantic  epistles, 
therefore,  I  always  confined  myself  to. ^enern/ ex- 
pressions, and  never  put  the  names  of  individu- 
als into  the  imaginary  sketches  of  my  pen. 

At  the  end  of  my  first  year  at  Shorton  I  made 
a  flying  visit  into  "the  corn  country,"  not  even 
stopping' in  London  to  leave  a  card  on  my  aunt. 
I  slept  only  three  nights  at  Beechcy,  and  spent 
only  three  days  at  Earnham  Cobb ;  but  they  were 
happy  days — very  hap)3y  ones.  My  old  friends 
were  delighted  to  see  me.  Etty  was  the  most  al- 
tered. Almost  seventeen,  and  fast  advancing  to 
tlie  full  perfection  of  her  matchless  beauty,  she 
was  the  loveliest  creature  that  I  liad  ever  seen — 
that  I  have  ever  seen.  The  braids  and  curls  and 
folds  of  her  golden  hair  were  richer,  finer,  more 
glossy  than  ever.  Her  slight,  airy  figure,  wheth- 
er she  remained  still  or  moved,  was  the  language 
of  grace ;  to  look  at  it  made  me  feel  as  if  I  list- 
ened to  music.  Her  eyebrows,  always  of  a 
richer  color  than  her  hair,  had  grown  yet  dark- 
er, and  were  very  soft  and  thick,  and  her  soft 
blue  eyes  looked  through  long  lashes.  At  every 
turn  made  by  her  head  upon  the  slender  neck  on 
which  it  was  set,  I  saw  a  difterent  curve — of  lip, 
of  cheek,  of  chin,  of  brow — and  every  succeed- 
ing curve  seemed  more  beautiful  than  those  ex- 
hibited before.  She  was  not  a  beauty  of  one 
smile,  but  of  a  hundred  smiles,  all  differing  in 


26 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


character,  but  equal  in  their  i)0\vcr  to  delight. 
I  would  talk  of  her  little  mouth,  with  its  short 
and  sharjily-curvcd  ujiper  lip,  her  small  white 
hands,  and  her  tiny  feet ;  but  I  may  not  cata- 
logue her  charms,  and  ])ut  them  into  an  inven- 
tory, as  if  they  were  articles  of  furniture. 

I  was  very  near  telling  her  my  secret,  even 
more  plainly  than  I  had  told  it  to  Tibby ;  for  I 
was  of  course  not  less  desirous  to  get  her  ap- 
proval to  my  i)lan  than  I  had  been  to  win  her 
sister's,  of  which  I  by  this  time  felt  secure. 

But  I  thouglit  it  wiser  to  defer  the  revelation. 

So  without  speaking  about  my  secret  I  returned 
once  more  to  the  coal  country,  where  a  strange 
adventure  awaited  me. 


CHAPTER  V. 

P  E  T  E  K     M  '  C  A  B  E. 

Evert  other  Saturday,  on  pay-days,  it  was 
my  custom  to  walk  into  Newcastle  from  Shorten. 
Sometimes  I  had  business  connected  with  Mr. 
Orger's  mines  to  transact  in  "  the  canny  town  ;" 
but  even  when  business  did  not  necessitate  my 
making  the  visit,  inclination  led  me  to  Tyne- 
side.  The  eiglit  miles'  walk  was  an  agreeable 
change,  reminding  me  of  my  frequent  pedestrian 
excursions  between  Beechcy  and  Farnham  Cobb, 
although  tlie  black  dust  of  the  Northumbrian 
roads  bore  small  resemblance  to  the  clean,  bright 
lanes  of  '"  the  corn  country."  It  was  also  a  pleas- 
ant diversion  to  me,  having  no  altogether  con- 
genial associates  with  whom  I  could  mix  on  terms 
of  intimacy,  to  watch  the  busy  crowds  of  pitmen 
and  work-j)eople  doing  their  marketing,  and  en- 
joying their  holiday  in  the  jjieturesque  and  pre- 
ci])itous  streets  of  the  "old  town,"  and  in  the 
imposing  thoroughfares  of  the  "new  town." 
The  shops  were  always  brilliantly  illuminated  on 
"pay-niglits,"  and  their  glaring  light  enlivened 
me  after  a  fortnight  of  gloomy  pitwork.  JMore- 
over,  the  surrounding  buzz  and  brightness  had 
the  effect  of  enabling  me,  as  I  strolled  up  and 
down  the  pavements,  to  call  up  vivid  pictures  of 
life  in  Farnliam  Cobb  College. 

Dusk  was  rapidly  deepening  into  darkness,  on 
one  of  these  occasions,  at  the  end  of  my  engage- 
ment at  Shorton,  when  I  was  standing  near  the 
old  town-liall,  amusing  myself  with  watching  the 
Cullercoats  fisherwomeii,  as  they  wrangled  over 
the  close  of  their  day's  work,  and  watching  tlie 
shi])S  on  the  river,  which  is  now  spanned  by  Rob- 
ert Steplienson's  sjilcndid  high-level  bridge,  wlien 
a  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoulder,  and  a  voice 
said, 

"  Maister  Gower,  will  ye  gang  hamc  wi'  me  ?" 
^t  that  moment  I  hapi)ened  to  be  reflecting 
on  the  mere  luck,  as  some  would  call  it,  that  led 
to  my  intimacy  with  Mr.  Easy.  rcrha])S  this 
circumstance  added  to  the  ex]iression  of  surprise 
in  my  countenance  and  delayed  my  answer. 

"Ay,  jod — nae  oft'cnse,  Ar  hope,"  said  the 
elderly  gentleman  who  owned  the  voice. 

"Indeed  no,  Mr.  M'Cabe,"  I  answered,  rais- 
ing my  hat.  "  I  sliall  be  delighted  to  accom- 
jjany  yon  ;  and  if  I  did  not  acee]it  your  invita- 
tion at  once,  tlic  reason  was  that  I  was  too  much 
Burpriscd." 

' '  Ye  hae  na  mony  frins?"  rejoined  Mr.  M'Cabe, 
divining  one  cause  of  my  astonishment. 


"Not  many — indeed  hardly  any  in  tlie  North." 

"Ay,  ye  cam  fra  the  Sooth;  but  niver  mind 
— ye  canna  help  thot.  It  was  jest  ye'cr  failier's 
misdeed." 

"  And  at  the  very  instant  that  you  touclied  me 
I  was  reflecting  that  one  of  the  best  and  dearest 
friends  I  have  in  the  world  I  first  knew  thron^rh 
his  accosting  me  in  a  public  street,  without  niiy 
introduction,  as  you  have  just  done — and  off'r- 
ing  me  kindness,  as  you  have  also  just  done." 

"  Tliot's  a  vara  strange  coeencidence,"  return- 
ed Mr.  M'Cabe ;  "but  gie  us  ye'er  arm,  an'  let 
us  gang  oop  toon." 

I  had  never  spoken  to  ]\Ir.  Peter  M'Cabe  be- 
fore, but  I  knew  him  very  well  by  repute  as  the 
inventor  of  several  mechanical  contrivances  for 
carrying  out  mining  oi)erations,  and  as  a  man  of 
great  wealth.  Thirty  years  ago  no  man  stood 
higher  in  Newcastle  than  Peter  M'Cabe.  He 
had  in  early  life  raised  himself  in  a  coal-pit  from 
the  lowest  to  the  highest  grade  of  the  mining 
craft.  A  Northumbrian  distich  runs, 
"Trapper,  Traiumer,  Hewer, 
Under-overman,  and  tlien  Viewer." 

Years  back  Mr.  M'Cabe  had  discharged  all 
these  offices;  and  then  giving  up  his  business  as 
viewer,  and  turning  merchant,  he  had  risen  to 
be  one  of  the  leading  capitalists  of  Newcastle. 
He  was,  moreover,  a  popular  man — not  the  less 
so  because  he  was  known  to  be  rich,  and  was  a 
bachelor  without  children. 

"Ye  canstapthenicht,  ay?'*  wasMr.  M'Cabe's 
first  question,  after  I  had  taken  a  seat  in  his  din- 
ing-room, in  the  principal  terrace  of  the  new 
town,  at  a  table  furnished  with  materials  for  a 
"substantial  tea." 

I  hesitated. 

"Iloot  mon — Ar's  got  the  bed  ready  for  ye." 

"Got  the  bed  ready  for  me?"  I  rejoined  with 
surprise. 

"Ay,  an'  ye  dinnaneed  to  stare  at  me  i'  tliot 
way,"  responded  my  host,  with  a  smile  of  exult- 
ation at  his  sagacity.  "'Twasbut  this  morning 
Ar  told  my  hoosekeeper  to  get  the  spare  room 
ready  for  ye.  The  Shorton  mines  dinna  need 
ye  thae  nicht.  Sae  sleep  here,  for  Ar  hae  set- 
tled to  mak'  ye'er  acquentance." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you.  Sir — and  I  shall  enjoy 
stopping,"  I  replied,  beginning  to  suspect  that 
my  entertainer  had  some  object  beyond  a  desire 
to  display  his  hospitality  in  seeking  me  out. 

"Thot's  guid,"  remarked  Mr.  M'Cabe,  laying 
a  strong em])hasis  on  "guid,"  and  then  deliber- 
ately continuing  his  explanations.  "Y'e  see  Ar's 
talked  to  Clay  aboot  ye,  an' Ar  hear  ye'cr  a  bra' 
lod,  bent  on  doing  weel  in  the  warrld.  He  wad 
hae  sent  ye  to  me,  but  Ar  said  Ar  knew  Ar  could 
fin  ye  i'  pay-night  wi'out  trooblin'  him.  An'  ye 
see  my  wark  is  joost  as  guid  as  my  promise.  An' 
ye  dootless  nccdnabc  toold  thot  Ar  hae  na  brocht 
ye  here  fin*  nacthing." 

Mr.  M'Cabe  jiansed — I  bowed. 

"Ye  see,"  continued  my  host,  "I  hae  joost  a 
pra])pooseetion  to  lay  before  ye." 

"  I  shall  be  most  h.appy  to  hear  it,  Sir." 

"Nae,  nae — niver  be  in  sic  a  hurry.  We're 
nae  at  the  quay  noo.  Let's  hae  a  drap  o'  whas- 
key  with  a  vara  leetle  hot  water  in  it,  and  than 
we'll  coonverse." 

Of  course  I  complied. 

We  had  tea;  and  the  table  being  refurnished 
with  the  ai>paratus  for  drinking,  I'eter  M'Cabe 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


27 


mixed  himself  a  stift'  tumbler  of  hot  whisky  tod- 
dy, and  passing  the  spirit  bottle  over  to  me,  left 
me  to  mix  for  myself.  I  need  not  say  that  I 
availed  myself  of  the  advantages  of  my  position 
to  pnt  a  very  liberal  pro])ortion  of  water  and  a 
very  modest  allowance  of  "  whasky"  into  my 
ghiss. 

Shrewdness  and  benevolence  I  knew  were 
among  Peter  M'Cabe's  characteristics;  and  it 
-soon  became  manifest  to  me  that  self-esteem  and 
egotism,  of  the  least  offensive  kind,  were  also  to 
be  numbered  among  his  prominent  qualities. 

"Ye  see,  my  lod,"  he  said,  toward  the  end  of 
his  second  tumbler  of '  whasky,'  with  '  vara  leetle 
water  in  it' — "yc  see,  my  lod,  Ar's  a  self-made 
mon,  thot's  wot  Ar  am.  Ar  made  my  ain  for- 
tunes, sic  as  they  are ;  an'  noo  as  Ar  walk  doon 
Pilgrim  Street  to  Quay-side,  the  lods  whasj)er  to 
ain  anifher  as  Ar  pass,  '  Hech,  mon,  there's  Pe- 
ter jNI'Cabe  wi'a  hoonder  thoosan  in  his  pooch  !' 
An'  that's  what  not  mony  o'  the  New-Cassel  lods 
can  say  o'  theirsel." 

Having  mixed  a  third  tumbler,  certainly  not 
less  stiff  than  its  preciirsoi's,  Peter  M'Cabo 
smoothed  his  gray  locks  with  his  hands,  and 
having  composed  his  comely  face  before  a  mir- 
ror, sat  down  once  more  and  resumed  the  story 
of  his  early  rise  and  present  greatness. 

"  Ar  had  nae  eddication  when  Ar  was  a  lod. 
On  cooming  to  be  a  mon,  Ar  toclit  mysel  spellin' 
an'  writin',  but  eddication  Ar  liad  nane.  Not  a 
penny  did  my  eddication  cost  my  father,  when 
Ar  rin  aboot  the  pit-mooth  at  Callerton  as  bare- 
legged as  iver  Natnr  madi'  a  bairn.  An'  Ar've 
done  vara  weel  wi'oot  eddication.  Ar  mak'  noo 
vara  grand  opeenion  o'  them  as  ar?  eddicated. 
Pot  afore  me  an  cddi^atcd  mon  an'  an  oneddi- 
catcd  mon,  an'  the  deeference  atwecn  the  twa  "11 
be,  that  the  oneddicatcd  mon  '11  be  doosed  sicht 
cooter,  an'  hae  a  doosed  sicht  mair  i'  liis  noddle 
than  the  eddicated  mon.  Xae,  my  lod.  tak  the 
warrld  thro',  an'  Ar  have  nae  opeenion  Avhativer 
o',  ony  mon  but  what  is  oneddicatcd.  13ut  that 
I  say  betwixt  ye  an'  myscl." 

As  I  knew  Peter  i\I'Cabe  had  an  amount  of 
information  and  book-learning  tliat  could  only 
be  the  result  of  strenuous  efforts  on  his  part  to 
make  up  by  self-culture  for  the  defects  of  early 
education,  1  was  not  much  troubled  how  to  esti- 
mate his  eulogy  on  the  advantages  of  being  un- 
taught. It  had  already  become  ajjparent  to  me 
that  whatever  Peter  M'Cabe  had  endured,  seen, 
or  contended  with,  it  was  best,  in  his  opinion, 
for  human  nature  tliat  every  man  should  in  like 
manner  experience  and  encounter — in  short,  that 
Peter  ]\I'Cabe  was  "  the  grandest  mon  i'  a'  New- 
Casscl,"  and  therefore  those  were  next  best  who 
in  extraction  and  vicissitudes  most  nearly  resem- 
bled him.  « 

"Nae,"  continued  Peter,  "Ar  sair  meestrust 
a'  eddicated  ])eople.  Ar  was  what  ye  ca'  i'  the 
Sooth  an  eelligeetimato  chiel.  Ar  was  a  mis- 
come  bairn.  Noo,  mony  a  mon  with  a  noddle 
shaped  like  a  sparrow's  or  an  ould  tom-cat's  wad 
blush  to  confess  himsel  ony  sic  thin  as  a  bairn 
wi'oot  an  honest  mither.  But  Ar  hae  nae  sic 
weakness.  All  the  cootest  an'  strangest  men 
Ar've  met  in  a'  my  days  hae  been  eelligeeti- 
mate,  wi'oot  ony  exception.  In  fact,  my  lad, 
betwixt  ye  an'  myself  Ar  hae  nae  grand  oj>eenion 
o'  ony  mon  but  what  is  eelligeetimate." 

I  began  to  fear  that  Peter  Jil'Cabe  Avould  fin- 


ish up  by  telling  me  that  he  had  no  good  opin- 
ion of  me,  as  I  had  neither  the  reconmiendation 
of  illegitimate  birtii  nor  that  of  total  want  of  ed- 
ucation. 

lie  did  not,  however,  make  so  personal  an  ap- 
plication of  his  doctrines.  Notwithstanding  his 
extravagant  crotchets  I  felt  drawn  by  kindly  feel- 
ings to  my  new  acquaintance.  It's  a  belief  of 
mine  that  the  voice  is  a  much  more  faithful  and 
trust-worthy  indicator  of  character  than  either 
feature,  figure,  expression  of  countenance,  or 
bearing.  I  have  had  dealings  with  a  great  va- 
riety of  men,  and  in  my  various  undertakings  I 
have  not  escaped  the  clutches  of  knaves  and  ras- 
cals. I  do  not  blush  to  acknowledge  that  a  few 
times  in  my  life  I  have  been  completely  taken  in 
— thoroughly  bamboozled.  But  whenever  the 
quality  of  a  person's  voice  has  said  to  me,  "  Trust 
the  man  who  owns  me,"  or  "Be  suspicious  of  the 
man  who  owns  me,"  I  have  never  found  the  warn- 
ing a  false  one.  Now  Peter  M'Cabe's  voice  was 
that  of  a  kindly  and  thoroughly  honest  man ;  it 
was  a  soft,  drowsy,  chuckling,  happy  voice. 

"  Ye'er  time  at  Shorton  will  be  oop  in  sax 
weeks  frae  this  pay-nicht,"  observed  Peter,  look- 
ing into  the  bottom  of  his  fourth  tumbler  with 
sober  but  twinkling  eyes. 

"  JMy  engagement  will  terminate  then.  But 
I  think  I  may  say  that  if  I  wish  to  continue 
there  I  need  not  fear  any  difficulty  in  renewing 
my  engagement." 

"  Hech — an'  why  so?"  put  in  Peter,  sharply. 

"Because  I  have  discharged  my  duties  to  the 
best  of  my  ability,  and  I  believe  I  enjoy  the  ap- 
proval of  Mr.  Clay." 

"Because  ye've  discharged  your  duties  to  the 
best  o'  ye'er  abeelity, "  replied  Peter,  deliberate- 
ly repeating  my  words  with  a  shrewd  sarcastic 
emphasis.  "Noo,  I'll  joost  tell  'ee.  Ye  wad 
hae  me  to  onderstond  that  ye  hae  said,  '  My 
abeelities  are  vara  far  fra  ordinaire,  an'  Mr.  Clay 
an'  Mr.  jMartin  Orger  wad  fine  it  nae  easy  thing 
to  get  an  under-viewer  like  me.'  " 

"Indeed,  Mr.  M'Cabe,  J  would  say  no  such 
thing." 

"O'  coorse  ye  wadna,  an'  o''  coorse  ye  didna. 
Ye  pot  it  in  a  mair  modest  manner.  An'  ye  do 
richt  well  to  be  modest;  but  oh,  my  lod,  dinna 
be  o'ermodest,  dinna  be  o'ermodest.  Modesty 
is  a  sweet,  plaisant  vairtu  in  a  yong  mon — vara 
agreeable  to  the  elders  he  eats  an'  drinks  wi' — 
bot  ye  may  hae  too  muckle  on  it,  an'  too  gret  a 
quantity  o'  modesty  has  been  the  downfa'  o'  mony 
a  bra'  lod.  But  noo  ye  wad  be  liking  to  hear 
what  the  prappooseetion  may  be  I  spoke  on  but 
joost  noo." 

I  brightened  up. 

"Noo,"  continued  Peter,  brightening  up  also 
at  the  sight  of  my  expression  of  lively  interest — 
"wad  it  na'  be  a  bonny  jest  if  Ar  was  to  tell  'ee 
after  a'  that  I  hae  nae  prappooseetion  whativer 
to  mak'  to  yc?" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    NEXT    DAT. 

H.wiNG  had  his  joke,  Peter  M'Cabe  proceed- 
ed to  "mak'  a  prajijiooseetion"  to  me.  When 
he  had  finished  making  it  he  lighted  the  bed- 
room candles,  and  conducted  me  to  the  door  of 


r8 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


my  sleeping  apartment,  where  he  bade  me  good- 
night. 

Tiic  sound  sleep  that  Peter  hospitably  wished 
me  on  moving  oft'  for  his  own  pillow  was  a  sim- 
ple impossibility  to  one  who  had  only  just  been 
made  the  recipient  of  a  proposal  which,  if  lie  de- 
cided to  shape  his  conduct  by  it,  would  altogetli- 
cr  change  his  present  course,  and  in  all  proba- 
bility influence  his  career  throughout  life.  For 
hours  I  lay  awake,  calculating  the  chances  of  the 
future,  and  regarding  them  all  in  reference  to 
jiiy  "  corn  country"  secret.  Toward  dawn  I  got 
a  brief  period  of  slumber,  but  it  was  so  light  a 
sleep  that  the  rattling  of  a  carriage  under  my 
window  broke  it,  and  presented  me  with  the 
Irishman's  assurance  that  it  was  "  next  day." 

Kising  and  dressing,  I  descended  the  staircase 
of  Mr.  M'Cabe's  house,  and,  drawing  the  bolts 
of  the  hall  door,  I  let  myself  out  in  the  street. 
No  one  was  stirring  in  the  town,  and  the  quiet 
of  the  Sunday  dawn  and  the  freshness  of  the 
breeze  made  me  congratulate  myself  on  having 
quitted  my  bed  ;  and  a  walk  of  an  hour's  dura- 
tion over  the  leazes  and  the  Towu  Moor,  on  the 
dewy  grass  and  amidst  tlie  sweet  breath  of  tiie 
freemen's  cows,  gave  me  more  composure  and 
refreshment  than  I  should  have  gained  from  a 
prolonged  occupation  of  my  restless  bed. 

Peter  JM'Cabe  had  informed  me  that  his  break- 
fast-hour was  half  past  seven  o'clock.  So  I  reg- 
ulated my  steps  in  such  a  manner  that  I  was 
back  again  at  his  door  by  six  o'clock.  As  I  ]iut 
my  foot  on  the  door-ste])  I  looked  up  the  ter- 
race, and  found  that  he  was  "stirring" — taking 
a  breath  of  fresh  air  on  the  pavement,  which  he 
paced  up  and  down  in  a  meditative  humor. 

"  Hech — an'  hoo  did  ye  sleep?"  was  his  first 
question. 

"Not  very  well,  Sii',"  I  answered,  bidding 
him  good-morning.  "  I  had  too  much  to  think 
about." 

"Aha  I"  he  rejoined,  with  a  twinkle  of  satis- 
faction in  his  eyes,  "  Ar  thoct  ye  wadna  sleep 
anyhoo  but  puirly.  Ar  thoct  ye  wad  hae  enoo 
to  do  in  turning  aboot  my  ])rappooseetion." 

We  took  two  or  three  turns  up  and  down  the 
sunny  pavement  in  silence — my  companion  lajis- 
ing  into  his  meditative  mood,  and  I  being  in  no 
temper  to  originate  conversation.  i 

Tiie  servant-girls  were  by  tins  time  busy  in  the  i 
areas  of  the  houses  sweeping  and  cleaning,  and  | 
making   courtesies   as   we   passed.      Newcastle 
servants  are  not  lavish  of  their  politeness;  but 
Peter  M'Cabe  was  the  ])opnlar  resident  in  the  j 
terrace,  and  would,  in  his  more  social  moods, 
resjjond  to  their  obeisances  w  ith  such  exclama- 
tions as  "A  breet  nK)riiinV'  or  "Thankye,  my 
hinnie,"  or  "It'll  nac  be  lang  eer  a  yonger  lotl 
than  Peter  M'Cabe  maks  his  boo  to  ye."     On 
the  jjrescnt  occasion  lie  was  too  absorbed  for  ur- 
banity, and  only  exjiressed  his  satisfaction  with  j 
the  attention  offered  him  by  saying  to  me  in  an  j 
tmder-tone  as  he  turned  iuto  his  house,  "  They're 
a'  bonny  lasses.    Ar  niver  knew  a  lass  that  wasna 
bonny  somehoo  or  anither." 

Entering  the  hall  of  his  residence,  he  paused 
at  the  large  oak  table  that  was  its  jirincipal 
])icce  of  furniture,  and  pointing  to  a  pile  of  old 
musty  folios,  in  ancient  leather  binding,  stacked 
on  tiie  table,  intimated  tliat  he  wished  me  to 
look  at  them. 

"They're  a  bonny  lot  of  bulks,  bcant  'ec  ?" 


I  opened  the  topmost  folio  of  the  pile,  aud 
found,  to  my  surprise,  that  it  was  a  copy  of 
Xeno))hon's  works. 

"Where  did  you  get  them.  Sir?" 
"  Oh,  frae  the  market.     It's  vara  heavy  buik, 
isna'  it  ?"  he  asked,  taking  the  ponderous  tome 
in  his  hands,  and  testing  its  weight  by  swaying 
it  uj)  and  down  as  if  it  were  a  baby.      "I  bocht 
joost  twa  hoonderweight,  an  odd"  lot  joost  for  ■ 
foornitur,  but  I  wad  like  to  knoo  wdiat  they  are. 
Noo,  what  d'ye  ca'  the  buik?" 
[      "It's   a  Xenojihon,    Sir,"   I   replied,   gladly 
availing  myself  of  my  slender  classical  attain- 
ments. 

"  Ye  dinna  say  so  ?"  answered  Peter  M'Cabe, 
with  a  movement  of  lively  astonishment.  "A 
Xayno]ihon  !  Ye  dinna  say  so  ?  The  Laird  pro- 
tect us!  Who'd  ha  thoct  o'  that?  A  Xayno- 
phon  !  An'  noo,  if  it  beant  too  grct  a  thing  to 
ask  ye,  my  lad — what  is  a  Xaynojihon  ?" 

I  explained  that  Xenophon  was  a  very  distin- 
guished man  m  his  day — a  historian  of  renown 
— whose  works,  written  in  Greek,  then  lay  be- 
fore me 

"Weel  noo,"  said  Peter  M'Cabe,  evidently 
deeply  imjircssed  by  my  erudition,  "  what  ye  say 
is  sic  remarkable  an'  exclusive  information  that 
I  wad  like,  if  ye  hae  nae  objaiction,  to  mak'  a 
note  o'  it." 

Seeing  that  my  host  suspected  I  might  not 
like  to  lose  my  peculiar  property  in  "sic  remark- 
able an'  exclusive  information,"  I  hastened  to 
disabuse  him  of  any  such  feeling;  when  he,  on 
being  assured  that  he  might  "mak'  a  note  o'  it," 
took  a  pencil  from  his  pocket  and  wrote  in  large 
romid  hand,  on  the  fly-leaf  of  his  new  acquis!-' 
tion,  the  words  "Greek,"  "  Historian,"  "Xeno- 
])hon" — the  words  being  placed  one  above  an- 
other, and  the  last  word  being  (as  a  singular 
mystery  of  scholarship)  spelled  according  to  my 
ex]iress  directions. 

The  other  volumes  were  passed  in  review. 
Four  folios  of  ragged  County  Histories,  two  of 
Clarendon's  History  of  the  Great  Rebellion,  a 
stray  volume  of  the  Biographia  Britannica,  a 
collection  of  Tracts,  and  Johnson's  Dictionaiy, 
were  the  principal  items  of  the  lot,  till  I  came  to 
the  last  and  the  largest  "buik"  of  the  entire  col- 
lection. 

"There,"  said  Peter,  with  manifest  pride, 
and  a  simplicit}''  that  was  perfect!}'  childish, 
"that  is  the  vara  biggest,  and  wi'oot  ony  excep- 
tion the  bonniest  buik  I  iver  clapt  my  sight  on 
in  a'  my  days." 

On  insjicction  I  ascertained  that  the  folio  so 
highly  ])raiscd  was  an  old  edition  of  the  Greek 
Testament.  On  my  imparting  this  fact  to  the 
owner  of  the  volume  surprise  and  delight  filled 
his  face  with  radiance,  and  almost  sent  his  eyes 
out  of  his  head.  I  am  not  exaggerating  when  I 
say  that  I  never  saw  a  man  appear  more  pleased. 

"Maister  Gower — be  quick — that's  the  Scrip- 
turs  in  the  original?" 

"  A  part  of  them,  Sir." 

"  Hech  I  to  think  o'  it !  Ar  was  sure  'twere 
a  vara  remarkable  buik.  Joost  to  fancy  it !  The 
Scripturs  in  the  original !  The  vara  buik  itsel' ! 
Noo,  my  lod,  dinna  tell  a  mon  i'  the  toon  that 
Ar  hae  it.  Y'e  niauna  spread  the  news,  or 
there'll  joost  be  oonders  o'  greedy  fellows  after 
it ;  but  not  anc  o'  'em  shall  hae  it." 

Of  course  very  careful  notes  had  to  be  made 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  \Y()TiK. 


29 


of  this  treasurp.  At  my  dictation,  Peter  M'Cabc 
wrote  oil  tlie  titlc-jiage  "  Greek  Testament,"  and 
at  the  commLMiccnu'iit  of  each  sejjarato  book  he 
wrote  "Bejiiniiini;  of  Matthew,"  "Beginning 
of  Mark,"  and  so  on  till  we  came  to  lievolation. 

When  tlic  notes  were  completed,  Beter  M'Cabe 
shut  the  volume,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "This 
biiik  is  a  gret  acqniseetion,  and  I'm  richt  thank- 
fu'  for  it.  Ar's  a  sinfu'  mon,  and  my  hairs  are 
fast  growing  white,  and  Ar  feel  it  i'  the  mornins, 
as  I  didna  years  syne,  when  Ar  hac  been  o'er 
indulgent  wi'  wliasky  o'er  niciit.  Sac  Ar'U  keep 
the  bulk  to  mysel'  in  my  ain  Strang  chest,  and 
say  nocht  aboot  it  to  mortal  man ;  and  I  hac 
nae  doot  it'll  do  me  good,,  body  and  saul. " 

As  he  uttered  these  words  he  dusted  the  moth- 
eaten  covers  of  the  folio  with  pious  care,  and 
having  finished  the  sentence  lie  lifted  up  the  vol- 
ume with  both  hands,  as  if  he  meditated  bearing 
it  off  to  liis  strong  chest  without  delay.  TJien 
another  thought  struck  him,  and  he  looked  at 
me  wishfully — as  though  he  contemplated  mak- 
ing a  further  demand  on  my  scholarship,  but  out 
.of  motives  of  delicacy  hesitated  to  do  so. 

"Noo,  my  lod,  it's  a  vara  straunge  fancy,  but 
it  wad  delight  me  vara  much  to  hear  ye  read  a 
chapter  in  tlie  original,  joost  as  it  war  i'  the  be- 
ginning. Ar  shouldna  onderstond  it,  but  still 
it  wad  gie  me  jileasure.  We're  ganging  to  have 
a  bird  or  twa  for  breakfast,  an'  Ar  will  na  hae 
'em  oop  t'  th'  table  for  half  an  hour,  if  you'll  but 
read  me  a  cha])ter." 

Of  course  refusal  was  out  of  the  question.  So 
the  birds  were  ordered  for  half  an  hour  later,  and 
entering  the  breakflxst-room  I  and  Peter  M'Cabe 
commenced  our  theological  labors.  lie  sat  on 
one  side  of  the  fire-place  in  an  easy  chair,  all 
attention,  holding  up  his  hands  in  mute  aston- 
ishment, and  swaying  his  head  to  and  fro,  while 
I,  occupying  another  chair  at  the  oyiposite  end  of 
the  hearth-rug,  read  aloud  the  first  chapter  of  St. 
John's  Gospel. 

When  I  had  read  about  ten  verses,  I  paused  to 
see  if  my  auditor  had  not  had  enough  of  it. 

"Hoot- mon,"  he  cried,  throwing  his  right 
hand  out  energetically,  "gang  on.  'Tis  nae  a'. 
Let's  hae  it  a'.  Gie  me  fu'  measure,  rinning 
o'er.     A  bargain's  a  bargain — gie  mn  a'." 

So  I  went  on  steadily  to  the  end  of  the  cliaj)- 
ter.  When  I  had  finished,  my  host  gave  utter- 
ance to  his  opinion  that  he  had  had  "a  vara 
bonny  jireach — a  vara  bonny  preach,  and  vara 
suitably  for  the  Laird's  ain  day."  Having  re- 
peated this  criticism  about  a  score  times  ho  rose 
and  rang  the  bell  for  the  birds  and  the  hot  tea 
and  coffee. 

"Ar  canna,"  he  said,  at  the  close  of  break- 
fast, reverting  to  his  novel  entertainment,  "  hot 
pot  it  amang  the  lyaist  extraordinaire  events  o' 
my  life,  that  Peter  M'Cabe,  an  eelligeetimate 
and  wholly  oncddicated  lod,  should  live  to  hear 
the  Scripturs  read  i'  th'  original — to  hac  the 
original  in  his  ain  keeping,  bo't  in  a  chance  lot 
of  ould  bulks  i'  th'  New-Cassel  market — an',  mare- 
over,  to  hae  the  original  read  to  him  by  a  lod 
who  is  himsel  naethin  gretter  than  th'  under- 
viewer  o'  Shorton  mines.  Maister  Gower — 
Maister  Gower — there  are  far  mair  wonderfu' 
things  than  Trevittic's  iron  dragon  to  think 
aboot,  if  we  did  but  know  where  i'  th'  airth  to 
look  for  "em." 

After  breakfast  Peter,  having  first  carried  to 


its  appointed  ))laco  of  (Wnfincmcnt  his  "  Scri])- 
turs  i'  th'  original,"  drove  me  out  sixteen  miles 
in  his  gig  to  dine  with  a  friend — a  landed  jjro- 
])rictor  of  small  estate,  about  eight  miles  from 
Shorton.  The  drive  was  one  of  amusement  and 
jirofit,  for  Peter  confided  to  me,  in  his  character- 
istic vein  of  self-complacent  shrewdness,  all  the 
principal  vicissitudes,  difficulties,  and  triumphs 
of  his  career.  The  achievement  that  "made 
him  a  man,"  as  he  expressed  it,  was  the  ventila- 
tion of  a  valuable  mine  in  North  America  iVom 
which  human  labor  had  been  driven  by  a  scries 
of  awful  exjilosions,  and  by  the  apparent  im])os- 
sibility  of  dissijiating  its  noxious  gases.  After 
trying  numerous  futile  experiments  for  the  re- 
covery of  their  jiropcrty,  the  owners  of  the  mine 
determined  as  a  last  resource  to  get  the  assist- 
ance of  a  Northumbrian  mine-viewer.  The  im- 
mediate result  of  their  decision  was  that  Peter 
M'Cabe  undertook  to  serve  them,  on  the  agree- 
ment that  they  should  pay  him  all  his  expenses 
of  journeying  to  aud  from  America,  and  of  liv- 
ing in  America  for  six  months,  and  that,  if  with- 
in the  said  six  months  he  should  "cure  the 
mine,"  he  should  be  put  in  possession  of  a  cer- 
tain number  of  shares  in  the  property,  and 
£10,000  in  cash.  A  poor  but  sagacious  man, 
Peter  made  his  voyage  of  adventure,  expecting 
to  s])end  six  months  on  the  other  side  of  the  At- 
lantic. By  the  end  of  the  third  month  after 
landing  in  the  States  he  started  on  his  home- 
ward voyage  to  Liveqiool,  victorious  and  a  man 
of  wealth. 

Such  was  the  substance  of  a  story  which,  as 
Peter  M'Cabe  told  it,  was  an  admirable  romance. 
Coming  as  it  did  to  me  from  tlie  lips  of  the  ad- 
venturer himself,  who  had  only  the  night  before 
made  mc  a  "prappooseetion,"  the  narrative  liad 
peculiar  force. 

The  gentleman  to  whose  house  Peter  took  me 
— an  old,  broken-down,  illiterate,  and  battered 
Northumbrian  Squire — was  little  to  my  taste ; 
and  as  soon  as  I  could  do  so  with  pro]3riety  I 
rose  from  the  table  where  we  three  had  had  our 
mid-day  dinner  and  took  my  leave,  on  the  plea 
that  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  walk  home  to 
Shorton. 

"Than,  Maister  Gower,"  said  Mr.  M'Cabe, 
dryly,  and  in  a  business-like  manner,  as  I  wa?- 
dc])arting,  "ye'll  gie  meye'er  answerby  the  end 
o'  the  Aveek." 

"Yes,  Sir,"  I  answered. 

"Ganging,  mon?"  put  in  Mr.  Tilcot,  the 
Squire.  "Ganging?  Nae,  nae,  stap  an'  hae 
mair  wine,  an'  by  the  time  the  sun  gangs  doon 
we'll  hae  the  hat  water  an'-  the  whasky  on  the 
tabic." 

1  declined  to  profit  by  this  hospitable-  sugges- 
tion. 

"  Ay,  lod,"  said  Peter,  gravely,  and  with  some 
pathos,  filling  up  his  glass  as  he  spoke,  "  dinna 
tak  to  drink.  Its  o'er  airly  for  ye  to  be  raisin' 
y.t'cr  finger  to  ye'er  lip.  Yc're  yong  an'  bra' — 
fu'  of  health  an'  hope.  Dinna  tak  to  drinking 
till  yc're  ould.  A  mon  wi'  white  hairs  on  his 
noddle  can  hac  naething  better  to  do." 

''The  Sliorton  mines  yield  weel?"  asked  the 
Squire,  thinking  he  might  get  a  little  more  gos- 
sip out  of  me. 

I  assented. 

"Ay,  ay,"  the  Squire  rejoined,  "  reeches  mak' 
reeches.     Martin  Orgcr  is  a  reech  nion :  ajid  a' 


30 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


liis  kin  arc  vara  rcccl^  Joost  noo  he's  got  his 
heiress  niece  wi'  'cm,  a  bonny  hiss  with  twice 
twa  hoondcr  thoosau'  in  her  hand.  (Jnly  to 
thinls  o'  it !" 

"Indeed?"  said  I,  asking  a  question  in  my 
turn,  for  though  I  was  one  of  Mr.  Martin  Orger's 
servants,  I  knew  so  little  of  him  and  his  family 
history  that  I  had  not  even  heard  he  had  a  rich 
niece.  "Who  is  she?" 
I  "Hech,   dinna  ye  know  Miss  Olive  Blake? 

Bot  nae  wonder — "for  she's  niver  been  here  be- 
fore ;  she  was  born  an'  bred  i'  the  Sooth,  an' 
what's  o'  mair  importance  still,  'tis  i'  th'  Sooth 
that  she'll  tak  her  man.  She's  joost  the  ainly 
bairn  o'  the  banker  Blake — Blake  an'  Petersham 
— yc've  heard  the  names.  Her  father's  dead, 
an'  willy-nilly  she  maun  wed  ould  Petersham's 
ainly  son.  That's  hoo  to  keep  the  money  the- 
gither !  That's  hoo  to  graze  ye'er  ain  sheep  an' 
kill  ye'er  ain  mutton,  as  ye  say  i'  th'  Sooth. 
Ha  !*  ha !  an'  they  tell  me,  wi'  a'  her  money,  she 
cares  mair  for  jiaintin'  a  lot  o'  picters,  an'  scrib- 
bling a  lot  o'  bulks,  than  for  aught  else !  Ha ! 
ha!" 

Neither  Mr.  Tilcot's  wit,  nor  his  laughter  at 
it,  were  sufficiently  pleasant  to  induce  me  to  ])ro- 
long  my  visit,  so  I  bade  him  another  farewell, 
and  was  soon  striding  over  Fenton  Moor,  in  the 
direction  of  Shorton,  as  the  dusk  of  evening  fell' 
around  me. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


AN   OPENING    IN    LIFE. 


Should  I  agree  to  leave  my  country  for  five 
long  years  and  endure  the  heat  of  a  tropical 
climate,  and  run  all  the  risks  comprised  in  such 
endurance?  On  the  one  side,  I  might,  if  the 
"Mariquita  and  Pamplona  Mining  Company" 
answered  the  expectations  of  its  most  sanguine 
promoters,  return  a  rich  man  at  the  end  of  the 
above-mentioned  period,  with  an  interest  in  a 
vast  source  of  wealth  that  would  enable  me  to 
take  my  place  among  the  opulent  of  my  opulent 
country.  On  the  other  hand,  1  might  fall  in  the 
bold  venture  ;  death  might  come  to  me  by  fever, 
exhaustion,  anxiety,  or  the  bullet  of  a  thief. 
Well !  did  not  every  year  sec  thousands  of  hope- 
ful men  drop  in  the  pursuits  of  ambition?  why 
should  I  not  add  myself  to  tiieir  number  ?  There 
was  also  the  medium  between  these  two  extremes 
— no  enormous  fortune  won  at  the  end  of  five 
years  but  this  reward — honorable  and  instructive 
employment  for  five'years;  employment  that 
would  assuredly  lead  to  something  else  ;  and  an 
income  for  five  years  large  enough  to  admit  of 
my  helping  my  uncle  at  Becchey  more  liberally, 
and  also  of  my  laying  by  a  comfortable  sum,  say 
a  solid  £100  per  annum,  as  a  fund  for  future 
operations. 

Such  were  the  principal  questions  I  asked 
myself  as  I  strode  back  toward  Shorton.  Such 
were  the  first  considerations  suggested  by  Peter 
IM'Cabe's  "  prappooseetion"  to  send  me  out  as 
principal  Mining  Engineer  to  the  recently-formed 
"  Mariquita  and  Pamplona  Mining  Company." 
I  was  then  a  few  weeks  more  than  four-and- 
twenty  years  of  age,  and  regarded  the  whole 
subject  from  the  point  of  view  whicli  that  age 
would  be  most  likely  to  take.  Need  I  say  that  I 
took  the  hopeful  aspect  of  all  the  points  of  the 


case?  that  the  risks  and  disadvantages  of  the 
appointment  seemed  much  less,  while  its  emolu- 
ments, dignity,  privileges,  and  probable  benefi- 
cial results  appeared  much  greater  than  tliey 
really  were? 

By  degrees  all  the  gloomy  features  of  my  life's 
prospect  vanished.  The  chances  of  early  death, 
of  a  constitution  prematurely  destroyed,  of  bro- 
ken ties,  and  all  the  grounds  of  apprehension  or 
caution  disa])peared,  leaving  before  my  mental 
vision  nothing  save  the  picture  of  a  bronzed  but 
vigorous  young  man  who,  having  returned  from 
distant  lands,  was  standing  in  Farnham  Cobb 
Church  with  the  girl  of  his  heart  beside  him, 
and  the  Reverend  Solomon  Easy,  venerable  with 
more  than  fourscore  years,  converting  them 
twain  into  one.  Mj-  blood  was  singing  in  the 
tij)s  of  my  fingers,  and  the  muscles  of  my  limbs 
were  causing  me  to  shoot  over  Fenton  Moor  at 
racing  speed,  as  my  imagination  was  busy  filling 
up  the  outline  of  tiiis  jjicture,  when  I  was  arrest- 
ed in  my  course  by  a  voice  saying, 

"  I  am  fairly  vanquished,  and  you  must  take 
me  home.'"' 

I  turned,  and  in  the  dim  light  of  the  dusk  and 
the  soft  light  of  the  rising  moon  I  saw  distinctly 
a  lady,  young,  well-looking,  richly  dressed,  and 
evidently  of  the  higher  rank  of  life.  I  was  walk- 
ing so  fast  at  the  time  she  spoke,  that  sheer  im- 
petus carried  me  two  or  three  paces  beyond  her 
ere  I  pulled  up,  and  took  off  my  hat  in  courtesy 
to  her. 

"Come,  you  have  stopped  yourself  at  last," 
she  said,  with  a  light  laugh  ;  "that's  lucky.  I 
called  to  you  twice  before  you  heard  me,  and  at 
last  I  almost  screamed.  Then  you  heard  me. 
Of  course  you  were  not  deaf  to  my  cry  of  dis- 
tress. Now,  whatever  you  are  after,  you  must 
help  me.  This  is  my  case :  I  started  out  by  my- 
self— slipped  out  of  my  uncle's  house  without 
even  one  of  the  servants  seeing  me,  in  order 
that  I  might  explore  the  immediate  district,  and 
see  for  myself,  all  alone  and  without  a  guide, 
wliat  a  ])it-village  was  like.  Well,  I  have  been 
out  in  the  open  air  for  three  or  four  hours ;  I 
have  completely  lost  my  way ;  I  have  not  the 
slightest  notion  whor,'  I  am  ;  I  am  not  yet  tired, 
but  1  soon  shall  bo ;  and  yon  must  take  me 
home." 

"I  can  assure  you,"  I  answered,  still  keeping 
myself  uncovered,  "it  will  delight  me  to  render 
sucii  a  service  to  you.  Where  may  I  have  the 
pleasm-e  of  conducting  you  ?" 

"Back  to  my  uncle's,  of  course." 

"But,  lady,  I  do  not  yet  know  who  your  uncle 
is,  or  where  to  find  him." 

Site  was  young  and  tall,  not  beautiful — not  for 
an  instant  to  be  compared  with  Etty  Tree  in  the 
corn  country — but  graceful,  and  with  a  tone  of 
voice  and  manner  that  impressed  me  with  a  feel- 
ing that  she  was  of  a  social  degree  superior  to 
any  lady  I  had  ever  before  spoken  with.  The 
absence  of  entreaty  in  her  style  of  address,  her 
playful  self-possession,  and  her  musical  intona- 
tions, assured  me  that  she  had  been  educated  to 
look  for  nothing  but  delicate  consideration  from 
those  whom  she  encountered.  In  my  boyhood, 
as  well  as  in  my  later  days,  I  could  on  first  ap- 
proaching a  woman  always  "feel"  —  by  some 
process  of  sensation  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  me  more  minutely  to  describe — whether  or 
no  she  had  a  right  to  be  called  "  a  lady."  Well, 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


31 


I  now  "  felt"  that  I  was  talking  to  "  a  lady" — a 
woman  who,  by  birtli,  education,  pursuits,  asso- 
ciations, tastes,  and  aims,  had  tiic  fullest  and 
most  indisputable  right  to  the  high,  tlH)ugh 
much-abused,  title  of  "a  lady." 

"  Oh,  my  uncle  lives  at  Benton  Park.  My 
uncle  is  Mr.  Martin  Orger,"  she  said,  in  a  tone 
of  slight  surprise. 

It  immediately  occurred  to  me  that  my  com- 
panion was  the  heiress  of  whom  Mr.  Tilcot  had 
an  hour  before  spoken. 

"Indeed!"  I  answered,  bowing  again.  "Then 
you  have  another  reason  for  commanding  me.  I 
am  one  of  your  uncle's  servants — the  resident 
Superintendent  of  the  Shorten  mines." 

I  described  myself  thus  briefly  and  frankly, 
feeling  that  it  was  due  to  her  to  let  her  know  the 
exact  rank  occupied  by  the  person  with  wliom 
she,  mv  employer's  niece,  was  holding  conversa- 
tion. I,  of  course,  did  not  see  or  even  speculate 
how  her  interview  with  me  could  be  a  source  of 
embarrassment  to  her ;  but  still  I  deemed  it  ap- 
propriate to  warn  her  that  my  social  position  was 
very  different  from  hers.  Some  persons  may 
think  I  had  no  business  to  trouble  my  head  with 
sucii  considerations;  and  perhaps  they  may  be 
right.  Of  course,  had  the  stranger  been  a  man, 
I  should  have  made  no  such  explanation;  but  I 
then  thought  (as  I  do  now)  that,  in  his  bearing 
to  a  lady,  a  man  ought  to  think  in  every  imag- 
inable way  of  and  for  "her  feelings,"  and  never 
waste  a  moment's  care  on  his  own. 

Her  reply  showed  that  she  did  not  misconstrue 
my  woi'ds. 

"  You  don't  look  much  like  any  man's  servant, 
as  you  are  pleased  to  term  yourself,  Mr.  Gower ; 
and  if  I  do  not  read  your  fortune  wrongly,  it  will 
not  be  many  years  ere  you  have  a  place  of  com- 
mand assigned  you  in  the  division  of  the  world's 
work.  I  thank  you,  however,  for  condescending 
to  be  my  servant.  Allow  me  to  lean  on  your 
arm,  and  let  us  be  walking  to  Benton.  How  far 
distant  is  it?" 

"Bather  more  than  three  miles." 

"Let  us  make  haste  then.  There  will  be  an 
alarm  at  the  hall,  for  such  a  great  lady  as  Olive 
Blake  does  not  take  flight  from  her  uncle's  roof 
without  sooner  or  later  causing  a  conmiotion. 
You  started  just  now  when  I  mentioned  your 
name ;  but  you  by  this  time  remember,  I  sup- 
pose, having  seen  me  before." 

"You  visited  the  Shorton  mines  with  ]\Ir. 
Martin  Orger  three  weeks  since?"  I  rejoined, 
at  the  instant  recalling  that  I  had  seen  her  soft 
oval  face  and  brown  eyes  in  the  gloom  of  tiie 
Shorton  pit. 

"To  be  sure,  Mr.  Gower, "she  answered,  in  a 
hearty,  frank  way.  "  So  you  see  after  all  we  are 
old  friends,  and  it  is  not  the  first  time  I  have 
trusted  to  your  guidance.  I  do  not,  however, 
wonder  at  your  not  recognizing  me — I  was  so 
cloaked  up  that  day,  in  the  vain  hope  of  defend- 
ing myself  from  the  coal  dust.  And  I  was  too 
busy  observing  the  novel  sight  to  utter  three 
words  during  the  whole  inspection.  Yours  is  a 
terrible  business,  Mr.  Gower — a  business  of  dan- 
ger and  toil,  unrelieved  by  glory.  Do  you  like 
it?" 

"The  business  is  just  what  you  have  described 
it,  Miss  Blake,  and  consequently  I  don't  like  it. 
I  had  a  strong  distaste  for  it  as  a  boy,  and  that 
distaste  has  grown  to  a  mor'c  positive  form  of 


disaj)provaI.  But  I  continue  in  it  from  feelings 
of  duty  cpiiie  as  much  as  of  interest." 

"  Duty  reconciles  us  to  any  course  that  is  not 
positively  criminal,"  slie  said,  leaning  with  a 
slight  degree  more  of  force  on  my  arm,  and 
looking  up  into  my  face  as  she  did  so. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "duty  reconciles  us  to 
circumstances,  just  in  the  same  way  that  pru- 
dence makes  us  come  to  terms  with  tiie  adver- 
sary we  can  neither  conquer  nor  avoid  ;  but  all 
the  same  for  that,  the  circumstances  are  not 
agrceal)le  to  our  wislics." 

"True;  but  duty  and  prudence  ought  not  to 
be  coupled  together.  The  one  presides  only 
over  vile  calculations,  the  other  is  the  source  of 
human  goodness." 

She  did  not  say  this  in  a  tone  of  reproof  or 
even  of  instruction,  but  with  the  same  simple 
heartiness  with  whicli  slie  had  at  first  addressed 
me.  Now  I  reflect,  I  think  I  remember  detect- 
ing something  of  solemnity  in  her  soft  voice,  but 
])erhaps  the  jiresence  of  after-occurrences  in  my 
mind  suggests  that  which  was  not  really  the 
case. 

"I  fully  agree  with  you,  Miss  Blake,"  I  an- 
swered.    "I  hope  I  did  not  speak  lightly." 

"  You  spoke  the  truth,  and  it's  always  good  to 
hear  that.  A  life  of  duty  is  not  one  of  pleasure, 
and  it  does  harm  to  argue  that  the  case  is  other- 
wise. I  am  glad  I  have  been  to  visit  your  wild 
and  harsh  countrv,  Mr.  Gower ;  it  will  give  me 
much  to  think  about." 

' '  It  is  not  my  country.  I  was  born  in  the 
South,  and  I  do  not  intend  to  fix  myself  hero 
])ermanentl_y." 

"Indeed?"  she  put  in,  with  an  expression  of 
interest. 

"I  am  going  to  South  America,  as  mining 
engineer  to  the  '  Mariquita  and  Pamplona  Min- 
ing Company,'"  said  I,  becoming  confidential; 
for  I  had  determined  to  go  to  South  America, 
and  like  a  hot-tempered  young  man  I  was  brim- 
ming over  with  my  new  enterprise.  "  It  was 
only  late  last  night  that  I  was  offered  the  post, 
which  will  give  me  an  income  and  a  position 
very  different  from  what  I  at  present  enjoy. 
Perhaps  you  think  I  have  taken  too  siiort  a  time 
to  make  up  my  mind  on  so  important  a  point; 
but  all  the  same  for  that,  I  have  decided  to  try 
my  fortunes  in  Colombia." 

"No  wonder  that  you  were  absorbed  when  I 
called  to  you,"  she  answered,  just  as  a  man's 
own  sister  under  similar  circumstances  might 
answer.  "I  heartily  wish  you  success;  and  as 
for  the  haste  of  your  decision.  I  don't  blame 
that.  Young  men  must  jump  at  every  opening, 
and  not  dally — choosing  and  refusing.  Nay, 
nay,  you're  right.  Of  course,  as  your  plan  is 
so  novel  to  you,  you'd  rather  I  should  not,  in 
recounting  my  afternoon's  adventures,  tell  my 
uncle  that  he  is  going  to  lose  the  undcr-viewer 
of  the  Shorton  mines.  Of  course  you'd  like  to 
make  such  a  communication  yourself,  at  your 
own  time  and  in  your  own  terms." 

I  liked  the  consideration  her  words  displayed, 
and  I  told  her  so. 

"But,"  she  continued,  "how  will  the  young 
lady  in  the  South  approve  of  your  plan?" 

I  was  amused — and  the  expression  of  my  face 
allowed  her  to  see  it. 

"  No,  you  are  not  engaged,''  was  her  composed 
answer  to  my  look  of  denial  and  curiosity,  "but 


82 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


you  mean  to  be  cngapcd  before  you  leave  the 
country.  There's  a  girl  in  the  South  whom  you 
mean  to  make  your  wife.  From  boyhood  you've 
planned  it.  While  you've  been  working  in  the 
dark  gloom  of  the  Northumbrian  ])its,  a  vision 
of  a  ]ia]i])y  future,  with  her  for  the  queen  of 
your  home,  has  kept  liojie  alive  in  you  and 
made  life  comfortable.  Your  holidays  have  been 
spent  in  visiting  her.  Your  chief  object  in  go- 
ing to  South  America  is  that  you  may  bring 
back  the  wealth  that  will  enable  you  to  marry 
her.  Even  as  I  met  you  on  the  moor,  you  were 
debating  how  you  should  make  your  offer  to 
her." 

"  Good  Heavens,  Miss  Blake  !"  I  cried,  in  gen- 
uine apprehension  that  I  had  been  guilty  of  an 
unusual  form  of  lover's  extravagance — the  folly  j 
of  telling  my  secret  to  the  winds — "I  trust  I 
was  not  talking  out  loud." 

"No,  no — you  were  behaving  well  enough  on 
the  moor.  You  were  not  quite  so  attentive  to 
my  first  exclamations — not  quite  so  desirous  of 
rescuing  ladies  in  distress  as  a  true  knight  would 
have  been." 

"Tell  me,  then — ^liow  do  you  know  my  se- 
cret? how  did  you  discover  it?"  I  asked,  my 
anxiety  being  only  slightly  diminished. 

Olive  Blake's  merry  laugh  called  me  to  my 
senses,  and  ])utme  in  possession  of  all  her  tricks. 
Blushing  at  its  complete  success,  I  stammered 
out  an  entreaty  that  she  would  guard  it  even  as 
it  was  my  duty  to  guard  it. 

"You're  a  woman  of  the  world,  Miss  Blake," 
I  concluded  my  exhortation  by  saying,  "and 
know  well  how  to  ])lay  on  the  feelings  of  a  sim- 
pb  young  man,  little  used  to  society,  and  still 
less  accustomed  to  converse  with  brilliant  ladies 
like  yourself.  But  I  do  not  fear  you'll  make  a, 
merry  story  of  the  dextrous  fashion  in  which 
you  turned  out  the  secret  of  my  life  against  my 
will.  Ypu  might  show  little  mercy  to  me  ;  but 
you  would  not  disregard  what  is  due  to  one  of 
your  own  sex." 

"  D(m't  preach  to  me  what  I  may  or  may  not 
do ;  -above  all,  do  not  threaten  me  with  penalties 
if  1  break  your  code,"  she  said,  stopping  short, 
and  facing  toward  the  moon. 

"Here,  Mr.  Gower,"  she  continued,  playing 
as  a  high-ljred  girl  might  play  with  an  old  friend 
on  her  father's  lawn,  "stand  in  front  of  me,  and 
look  full  into  my  face ;  the  moon  is  shining 
on  it.  Now  do  you  see  a  trace  of  falsehood  in 
it?" 

I  answered  in  the  negative,  and  I  was  com- 
pelled to  acknowledge  to  myself  that  uij-  gen- 
uine judgment  accorded  with  my  words. 

"1  beg  your  j)ardon  for  the  impertinence  I 
have  been  guilty  of  toward  you,"  she  went  on  to 
say.  "Don't  stop  me,  for  you  deserve  an  apol- 
ogy. It  was  easy  for  me  to  read  in  your  feat- 
ures, and  voice,  and  bearing,  that  you  have  a 
generous  nature  ;  and  knowing  your  dis])osition, 
I  had  l)ut  small  difliculty  in  deducing  from  the 
little  you  let  drop  the  story  of  one  side  at  least 
of  your  affections.  \Vitii  men  of  your  nature  a 
woman  has  small  need  of  cunning  to  be  rej)Uted 
wise.  Tlie  more  my  shame  for  prying  into  what 
you  didn't  intend  me  to  see.  I  need  no  re- 
proof, save  that  which  my  better  taste  is  con- 
tinually giving  my  high  spirits.  Indeed,  I  beg- 
your  pardon.  Sir.  Now  let  us  continue  our 
way,  good  friends." 


She  was  so  manifestly  sincere  in  her  expres- 
sions of  dissatisfaction  that  I  was  anxious  to  less- 
en, if  not  to  remove,  her  discomfort.  I  wished 
she  had  not  apologized  with  such  unaffected 
fervor,  making  a  grave  fault  of  her  petty  indis- 
cretion. It  would,  however,  never  do  for  me  to 
say  so.  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed,  when 
in  an  instant  it  flashed  upon  me  how  I  might 
])Ut  her  at  her  case,  and  give  myself  pleasure  at 
the  same  time ;  and  the  thought  no  sooner  oc- 
curred to  me  than  I  acted  upon  it. 

"Be  good  enough.  Miss  Blake,"  I  said,  "to 
give  me  your  advice.  I  never  expected  to  have 
a  confidante  on  this  matter  before  I  spolie  my- 
self on  the  subject  to  the  young  lady  wlio,  I  pray 
God,  may  one  day  promise  to  be  my  wife.  But 
I  should  now  feel  truly  obliged  if  you  would,  first, 
listen  to  me  for  a  few  minutes  while  I  talk  about 
myself,  and  would,  secondly,  advise  me  what 
course  to  pursue." 

"  Go  on,  I  pray  you.  I  see  you  know  how  to 
forgive." 

I  went  on. 

I  told  her  (stranger  though  she  was)  the 
whole  history  of  my  boyish  love;  how  I  had 
nursed  it  within  the  recesses  of  my  own  breast 
for  years ;  how  I  had  not  even  yet  given  utter- 
ance to  it  to  her  whom  it  most  concerned  ;  and 
how  I  M'as  alreadj'  troubled  whether  it  would  be 
wiser  to  leave  England  for  South  America  with 
my  secret  undeclared.  Of  course  I  communi- 
cated to  her  all  the  particulars  requisite  for  the 
formation  of  a  sound  judgment  on  my  case — 
such  as  the  age,  experience,  character,  and  so- 
cial position  of  the  girl  I  hoped  to  bear  away  as 
my  bride. 

Olive  Blake  listened  attentively.  A  few  times 
she  put  a  clear,  practical  question,  showing  that 
she  accurately  a])preciated  the  difficulties  of  my 
]!Ositi(>n,  and  had  mastered  the  facts  already 
communicated  to  her.  When -I  had  comjjleted 
my  statement  she  maintained  for  three  or  four 
minutes  a  silence  which  she  concluded  by  saying, 
in  a  clear  and  decided  voice — "I  do  not  see 
that  the  case  admits  of  a  doubt.  You  must  go 
out  to  America  unmarried.  But  you  ought,  be- 
fore you  leave  the  country,  to  let  her  know  the 
state  of  your  feelings.'" 

"Thank  yon.  Miss  Blake.  I  am  obliged  to 
you.  I  will  in  the  cour.se  of  the  next  few  weeks 
go  down  into  the  South  and  act  upon  your  ad- 
vice. I  say  again  I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you.  You  would  not  think  my  gratitude  excess- 
ive if  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  man,  situated 
like  myself,  without  mother,  or  sister,  or  even 
an  intimate  friend.  And  here  we  arc  at  the 
east  gate  of  Benton  Park." 

"  I'll  trouble  you  for  your  escort  through  the 
])ark.  The  moon  gives  a  good  light,  so  I  could 
easily  find  my  way ;  but  I  do  not  like  jjassinj 
deer  and  strange  cattle  alone  when  peojjle  are  no 
longer  near  to  protect  me." 

Com])liance  with  this  request  lengthened  our 
walk  by  another  mile  and  a  half. 

"  Mr.  Gower,"  the  lady  said,  on  finally  shalv 
ing  hands  with  me  at  the  garden  gate,  "I  ho])C 
we  shall  meet  again.  Possibly  we  shall  at  some 
distant  day  laugh  over  this  our  first  interview. 
In  the  mean  time  believe  me  to  be  your  very 
good  friend.  I  sincerely  wish  you  liap])ines.s, 
I  am  greatly  deceived  if  you  do  not  deserve  it 
more  than  most  men." 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOEK. 


33 


"If  we  meet  again,  yoii  will  loarn  the  effect 
your  influence  has  had  on  my  life.  We  have 
been  thrown  together  by  what  we  may  as  well 
term  accident,  and  I  have  been  led  to  s])eak  to 
you  as  an  old  friend.  I  shall  now  act  on  your 
counsel  as  if  you  were  an  old  friend." 

"  If  it  is  my  destiny,"  she  said,  lightly  at  first, 
and  then  seriously  as  she  came  to  the  close  of 
her  parting  sentence,  "to  inlluence  your  life,  I 
hope  I  may  be  its  good  fairy,  bringing  bright- 
ness to  your  days  whenever  they  need  consola- 
tion. Perhaps  such  a  work  may  be  appointed 
to  me.  When  the  stories  of  our  lives  come  to  be 
written,  it  may  possibly  be  seen  that  the  young 
man  and  the  young  woman,  who  met  not  two 
hours  since  for  the  first  time  on  a  wild  moor, 
and  who  now  bid  each  other  farewell,  were 
brought  together  by  the  Power  that  regulates 
the  most  trifling  as  well  as  the  grandest  oj)cra- 
tions  of  His  universe.  Some  good  work  wrought 
out  and  perfected  in  the  far-off  mysterious  future 
may  be  the  result  of  to-day's  adventure.  But 
whether  we  meet  again,  or  part  forever,  I  sincere- 
ly wish  you  success  and  wise  guidance  at  this 
critical  period  of  your  life.  And  should  dark 
days  come  to  you,  remember  what  I  said  at  the 
commencement  of  our  interview,  'Duty  recon- 
ciles us  to  any  course  that  is  not  positively  crim- 
inal.'" 

She  left  me  without  another  word,  moving 
along  the  path  leading  to  the  terraces.  I  watched 
her  climbing  the  tiers  of  white  steps  one  after 
another.  I  saw  her  pause  for  a  minute  before 
the  fountains,  and,  turning,  look  in  my  direction 
and  over  the  glistening  park.  Her  black  figure 
was  a  mere  speck  as  she  ascended  the  entrance 
steps  of  the  hall,  and  then  that  small  speck  also 
disappeared. 

Long  after  she  had  entered  the  house  I  con- 
tinued standing  where  she  left  me,  recovering 
from  my  surprise,  recalling  her  words,  fearing 
she  might  regret  having  spoken  to  me  with  such 
familiarity,  finding  it  hard  to  understand  our  in- 
tercourse could  not  be  repeated. 

It  took  me  two  hours  to  walk  to  the  High  Col- 
liery at  Shorten,  where  I  had  my  lodging.  The 
exercise  of  the  day,  the  sleeplessness  of  the  pre- 
ceding niglit,  and  the  mental  excitement  of  the 
entire  twenty-four  hours,  mtist  have  consumed  a 
considerable  supply  of  what  the  doctors  call 
'•nervous  energy ;"  but  ere  I  went  to  rest  I  took 
out  of  my  desk  a  manuscript-book  in  which  it 
was  my  wont  to  note  the  important  events  of  my 
life.  It  was  a  rare  occasion  when  I  made  an 
entiy  in  my  volume  of  memoranda.  On  that 
night,  however,  I  penned  in  three  sheets  of  close 
writing  the  notes  from  which  this  chapter  has 
been  composed,  heading  them  "Interview  with 
Miss  O B ." 

This  literaiy  labor  accomplished,  finding  my- 
self quite  ready  for  rest,  I  forthwith  proceeded  to 
my  bed.  Slumber  soon  came  to  me ;  but  ere  its 
advent  I  had  time  to  review  the  proceedings  of 
the  day,  and  congi-atulat'^  myself  on  having 
spoken  so  frankly  to  Miss  Olive  Blake,  stranger 
though  she  was.  Had  she  been  an  ordin.ary  wo- 
man, I  should  have  regretted  my  impetuosity 
and  want  of  discretion.  j\Iy  reflections,  however, 
were  not  disturbed  by  a  shadow  of  self-condem- 
nation ;  for  I  knew  that  Olive  Blake  was  in  the 
highest  sense  of  the  word  a  "lady.'' 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FAREWELL. 

My  visit  to  "  the  corn  country,"  and  the  reve- 
lation which  I\Iiss  Blake  advised  me  to  make,  re- 
sulted in  my  engagement  to  Etty  Tree.  There  is 
no  need  to  tell  how  I  composed  divers  magnifi- 
cent and  pathetic  speeches  (all  of  them  in  their 
stilted  bombast  and  maudlin  sentimentality  com- 
pletely unlike  myself),  with  the  i)urposc  of  pour- 
ing them  into  her  ear  in  one  unbroken  current 
of  eloquent  supplication  ;  and  how,  when  I  had 
decoyed  her  from  the  hall  of  Farnliam  Cobb  Col- 
lege into  the  little  "tea-rooni,"  and,  with  her 
mother's  portrait  looking  down  upon  ug,  had 
gasped  out  the  first  three  words  of  my  petition, 
all  my  beautiful  phrases,  and  insinuating  tones, 
and  subtle  considerations,  and  even  all  the  com- 
monest words  of  the  dictionary  and  clumsiest 
sentences  of  oi'dinary  life,  deserted  me,  and  I 
could  say  little  more  than,  "Dear  Etty,  do  tell 
me  you  will !"  It  is  enough  that  dear  Etty  knew 
what  I  wanted,  and  said  "Yes"  a  most  unnec- 
essary number  of  times,  and  allowing  me  to  kiss 
her,  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  It  was  only  that 
old,  old  scene — so  often  acted  and  reacted  since 
the  foundation  of  human  society ;  and  yet,  I  do 
verily  believe,  never  yet  acted  in  the  smooth, 
and  graceful,  and  triumphant  fashion  described 
in  novels;  never  yet  acted  without  the  occur- 
rence of  some  absurd  blunder  of  forgetfulness  or 
awkwardness. 

The  weeks  intervening  between  our  betrothal 
and  my  departure  for  South  America  were  prin- 
cipally occupied  in  preparations  for  my  voyage. 
I  had  to  take  out  with  me  a  strong  party  of 
Northumbrian  and  Cornish  miners,  and  London 
mechanics,  together  with  a  large  and  costly  store 
of  machinery,  implements,  ammunition,  and 
provisions.  Indeed  the  scale  of  my  operations 
caused  me  great  anxiety  and  some  consterna- 
tion ;  but  the_y  gratified  Etty  and  my  other  Farn- 
ham  Cobb  friends,  for  their  magnitude  caused 
me  to  appear  before  them  as  a  man  of  prodigious 
importance.  While  they  were  in  progress  I  had 
to  be  in  London  with  more  business  on  my  hands 
than  I  could  well  get  through,  for  though  I  had 
then  plenty  of  courage  and  endurance,  I  was 
young  and  inexperienced. 

Twice,  however,  I  traveled  dow'n  on  the  roof 
of  the  mail-coach  into  "the  corn  country,"  and 
visited  Farnham  Cobb,  spending  nearly  all  of  my 
time  with  Etty,  and  only  just  escaping  the  guilt 
of  neglect  to  my  dear  uncle  at  Beechey.  They 
were  happy  days.  The  m.emory  of  them  never 
faded.  Fresh  and  lovely,  as  in  their  brief  period 
of  rapid  transition,  they  rose  before  me  after- 
ward, when,  thousands  of  miles  away  from  kin- 
dred and  friends,  I  toiled  on,  endeavoring  to  the 
utmost  of  my  insufficient  power  to  cope  with 
overwhelming  difficulties.  When  I  lay  at  death's- 
door,  wasted  by  fever,  surrounded  by  mutinous 
workmen,  and  apprehending  the  irru])tion  of  the 
robbers  of  the  Andes — those  days  waited  upon 
me,  ministering  to  me  like  angels,  whispering 
words  of  hope,  assuring  me  that  the  Providence 
who  had  brightened  my  childhood  with  love,  and 
guarded  my  youth  from  sin,  would  not  suiTender 
me  in  my  manhood  to  despair- 
Yes,  in  that  dark  passage  of  tronble  those 
words  were  my  comforters. 
Years  afterward,  also — in  the  vet  more  distant 


34 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


future — often  and  often,  in  the  silent  night  and 
with  the  gloomy  dawn,  they  reappeared  in  all 
their  terrible  beauty,  when  to  think  of  them  j'as 
to  shrink  from  them,  and  to  groan  under  one 
long  ])aroxysm  of  anguish  that,  while  it  lasted, 
seemed  always  at  its  Sharpest.     A  generation 


of  human  life  separated  me  from  the  first  com- 
mencement of  that  old  grief,  and  yet  the  pen 
trembles  in  my  hand  as  I  recall  the  ghastly,  hor- 
rible loveliness  of  those  days — that  would  per- 
sist in  haunting  me,  when  they  could  speak  to 
me  only  of  sin  and  shame  and  eternal  woe. 


FACT 


BOOK  III. 

-BEING  PART  THE  SECOND  OF  MISS  TABITHA  TREE'S 
NOTE-BOOK. 


CHAPTER  L 

MY   FIRST   AND    ONLY    LIE. 

I  CHRISTEN  this  book  "Faet,"  because  it  re- 
lates to  a  jieriod  of  my  life  when  I  passed  from 
"Dream-land"  into  the  domain  of  stern  fact. 

Julian  Gower's  jjcn  has  revealed  the  first  and 
greatest  secret  of  my  existence.  Let  no  woman 
blush  at  my  hardihood  in  publishing  that  secret 
to  the  world,  for,  as  the  course  of  my  tale  will 
show,  I  am  in  a  position  to  make  the  avowal 
without  sacrificing  my  own  dignity,  or  shocking 
the  delicacy  of  others. 

It  was  a  strange,  and  to  myself  a  bitterly  cruel, 
misfortune  that  I  did  not  discover  my  mistake  in 
imagining  that  Julian  Gower  loved  me  until  he 
had  resigned  his  appointment  at  the  Shorton 
Colliery,  imtil  he  was  once  more  in  the  College 
at  Farnham  Cobb,  until  he  had  made  his  offer 
to  Etty  and  had  been  accepted  by  her.  Indeed 
it  was  from  Etty's  lips,  overflowing  with  tri- 
umphant happiness  and  sisterly  love,  that  I  re- 
ceived the  announcement,  which  told  at  once 
my  blindness,  and  folly,  and  egotism. 

"Dearest,  dearest  Tibby!"  my  sister  whis- 
pered, with  an  air  of  intense  excitement,  as  she 
seated  herself  by  my  side  in  my  favorite  seat  in 
the  beech  avenue. 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear?"  I  answered. 
"  You  are  pale  and  frightened,  but  you  look  very 
happy." 

My  lovely  sister — no  longer  playful  school-girl 
Etty,  romping  and  laughing  in  the  exuberance 
of  childish  mirth,  but  a  woman,  tall,  slight,  deli- 
cate, and  thoughtful — put  her  arm  round  my 
diminutive  body,  and  nestling  close  u])  against 
my  small  frame  (as  if  she  in  all  the  rich  bloom 
and  perfection  of  beauty  required  my  care  and 
protection  more  than  ever),  made  her  confes- 
sion. 
'  "Tibby,  I  have  seen  Julian." 
I  started  in  my  seat. 

"Yes,  he  has  come  suddenly  from  the  North. 
He  found  me  alone  in  the  tea-room,  and  I  have 
been  sitting  there  with  him  for  more  than  an 
hour.  He  has  now  started  off  to  Beechcj-,  but 
he  will  be  back  here  in  the  evening  to  sec  grand- 
papa on  his  return  to  Laughton." 

What!  Julian  had  entered  the  College,  had 
been  in  it  more  than  an  hour,  and  left,  it  without 
seeking  out  his  old  playmate  Tibby?  What 
could  it  mean?  I  did  not  say  tliis,  but  the 
thoughts  darted  througli  my  l)rain,  and  there 
was  a  bird  fluttering  in  my  ])reast,  where  a  heart 
ought  to  have  been  hannncring  out  steady  and 
punctual  strokes. 


"He  has  walked  away.  He  said  he  could  not 
see  you  till  I  had  broken  the  news  to  you,  anx- 
ious as  he  is  for  your  lips  to  assure  him  of  your 
approval." 

Etty  still  spoke  in  the  same  quick  whisper  in 
which  she  had  begun  her  communication,  her 
words  leaving  her  white  lips  in  one  fast,  unbroken 
current,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  would  be 
an  hour  in  coming  to  the  point.  What  was  the 
news?  Of  what  could  Julian  be  anxious  to  ob- 
tain my  approval  ? 

"  He  loves  me,  Tibby,  and  has  begged  me  to 
be  his  wife,  and  I've  told  him  that  I  love  him 
and  will  be  his  wife,  when  he  returns  from  South 
America.  Oh,  dear  Tibby !  I  am  so  happy,  and 
you  have  helped  to  make  me  so.  It  isn't  all 
Julian's  doing.  You  taught  me  how  to  see  and 
value  his  noble  qualities,  and  all  these  long  si- 
lent years  since  I  was  a  little  child  you  have 
been  training  me  up  to  be  worthy  of  him.  Tib- 
by, dearest  Tibby,  when  I  am  his,  every  night 
that  I  kneel  down  by  his  side,  and  put  my  hands 
on  his  knees,  and  pray  God  to  make  and  keep 
me  a  good  wife,  I  will  pray  also  to  be  enabled  to 
be  a  good  sister." 

It  was  not  all  Julian's  doing !  I  had  taught 
her  to  sec  and  value  his  noble  qualities !  The 
whole  course,  and  all  the  windings  through  more 
than  seven  years,  of  my  long  error  flashed  upon 
me  !  What  was  I  to  do?  What  did  duty — my 
love  to  Etty,  my  loyalty  to  Julian,  my  respect  for 
myself — Ciimmand  me  to  do? 

Mind,  I  do  not  say  I  was  right  to  do  as  I  did. 
I  would  not  confound  good  and  evil ;  and  if  these 
confessions  lead  me  to  the  admission  that  for  one 
purpose  of  my  life  I  used  the  language  of  guile, 
I  make  the  admission  in  no  defiant  tone,  but  ask 
my  sisters  and  brothers  to  judge  me  generously, 
even  as  I  implore  my  Heavenly  Father  to  pardon 
me  mercifully. 

I  told  Etty  a  lie  ;  the  first  and  the  last  lie  my 
life  is  stained  by.  Jt  was  but  one  falsehood,  only 
one;  but  out  of  how  many  hniulreds  aiul  thou- 
sands of  lies  was  it  built  u]j?  It  took  years  to 
tell  it.  I  began  to  utter  it  when  I  nmde  answer 
to  her  in  the  beech-tree  walk — I  had  not  spoken 
the  last  of  it  when  all  tlie  fair  creation  of  hope, 
which  in  my  impious  presum]>tir)n  I  had  striven 
at  my  soul's  peril  to  preserve,  was  dashed  to  the 
ground,  its  ruin  covering  at  least  one  noble  na- 
ture in  gloom  and  anguish  tor  years. 

I  have  read  the  writings  of  gentlemen  learned, 

observant,   acute,   and    wonderfully   trained   to 

dress  up  the  bitterness  of  sarcasm  and  the  gall 

of  disappointment,    so  that  they  appear   mere 

[  jjlcasantry  and  light-heartedn?ss.    With  wit  ex- 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


quisitely  brilliant  aiul  ]nnii,fcnt,  and  a  Protean 
diversity  of  iiumorous  illustrations,  these  gentle- 
men have  fur  three  hundred  years  been  telling 
us  that  "the  false"  is  woman's  aim  and  habit — 
the  air  she  breathes,  the  world  she  dwells  in,  and 
the  workl  she  prefers  before  all  others.  She 
finesses  at  the  breakfast-tabic  and  in  the  ball- 
room ;  on  father,  brothers,  husbaml,  dejiendents 
she  plays  oif  one  endless  series  of  triclvs  and  ar- 
tilices,  some  of  them  with  selfish  ambition  for  an 
object,  but  many  of  them  elaborated  for  the  sake 
of  "  the  pure  sin  of  them,"  without  any  other 
end  in  view  than  the  delight  of  being  deceitful. 
This  is  the  woman  of  plays,  songs,  novels,  his- 
tories ;  and  she  is  as  unreal  and  fantastic  as  any 
thing  in  fairy-land.  Such  a  woman  no  more 
rules  in  English  homes  than  the  foolish  image 
of  Gog  or  Magog  sways  the  sceptre  of  the  Brit- 
ish throne.  I  should  like  to  see  this  paltry  but 
hurtful  falsehood,  this  poor  tradition  derived 
centuries  since  from  Heaven  knows  what  impure 
source,  this  distasteful  libel  on  human  nature, 
driven  from  the  domain  of  art.  Women  are 
not  untruthful.  They  hate  falsehood  as  much 
as  men  do ;  and  if  there  is  one  thought  which 
crosses  a  woman's  mind  oftener  than  another  in 
the  discharge  of  her  daily  round  of  duties,  it  is 
an  anxious,  half-instinctive  reference  to  truth, 
so  that  her  minutest  actions  and  most  trivial 
words  may  accord  therewith,  and  that  she,  on 
laying  her  head  on  her  pillow  and  summing  up 
the  day's  proceedings,  may  have  no  recollection 
of  any,  even  the  minutest,  deflection  from  the 
narrow  line  of  truth  resting  on  her  conscience 
and  rendering  her  uneasy.  Gentlemen,  do  not 
laugh  at  a  simple  woman's  words.  If  she  could 
make  you  think  better  of  herself  and  sisters,  she 
and  they  would  doubtless  be  happier,  and  in 
your  fuller  confidence  have  another  aid  and  mo- 
tive to  goodness  ;  but  you  would  be  gainers  also  ! 

So  I  began  to  tell  Etty  the  one  falsehood  of 
my  life.  I  must  call  it  one  falsehood,  though  it 
led  to  so  many. 

"Etty,"  I  said,  wondering  at  my  calmness, 
marveling  that  my  voice  did  not  betray  me,  and, 
as  I  spoke,  covering  the  object  of  my  artifice 
with  a  profusion  of  affectionate  demoiistrations, 
"  I  am  very,  very  glad.  For  years  I  have  longed 
for  this  day.  When  yon  were  a  child,  and  your 
beauty  was  still  only  in  its  rare  promise,  and  I 
saw  (young  and  inexperienced  as  I  was)  how 
noble  a  nature  Julian  Gower  possessed,  1  first 
conceived  the  hope  that  you  and  Julian  might 
live  to  love  each  other.  Had  I  been  myself  less 
devoid  of  jjcrsonal  attractions,  I  might  possibly 
have  entertained  other  hopes  with  regard  to  one 
I  so  enthusiastically  admired  as  I  do  Julian ; 
but  my  little  feeble  frame,  and  pale  face,  and 
unalluring  features  early  taught  me  that  I  was 
not  fashioned  for  the  love  of  men,  and  that  my 
surest  as  well  as  most  evident  road  to  earthly 
happiness  was  to  devote  myself  to  you,  and  make 
you,  and  your  husband,  and  the  children  that 
would  naturally  come  to  you,  regard  me  with  a 
warmth  of  affection  that  does  not  often  gladden 
the  life  of  an  old  maid.  This  lesson  is  a  hard 
one  to  most  women ;  but  it  came  to  me  so  early 
in  life  that  it  seemed  like  a  part  of  the  estab- 
lished order  of  things,  and  had  therefore  less 
especial  bitterness  for  me." 

"Dear,  dear  Tibby!"  Etty  broke  in,  with  a 
pathetic  ardor  that  smote  my  conscience,  "it 


was  long  ere  I  susitected  your  goodness ;  but 
during  the  last  year  I  felt  and  saw  what  you 
now  tell  me.  My  love  for  Julian  quickened  my 
aff'ections,  making  me  think  more  for  you ;  and 
last  autumn,  when  we  first  began  to  spend  our 
evenings  here  in  the  garden  talking  about  Ju- 
lian, and  when  your  eyes  used  lo  /i///it  uji  with  a 
fire  as  you  described  what  a  man  he  would  be, 
and  how  proud  his  wife  would  be  of  him,  I  felt 
that  you  were  anxious  above  all  things  to  secure 
me  that  pride.  I  sometimes  tried  to  push  you 
on  to  plainer  speaking :  once  or  twice  1  wa.j  on 
the  point  of  speaking  more  plaiidy  myself.  But 
I  did  not  dare  to  do  it ;  no,  not  even  to  my  sis- 
ter; for  though  I  might  hope,  I  did  not  know 
that  Julian  ever  Joved  or  could  ever  love  me." 

The  "  color  I'ose  to  the  roots  of  her  golden 
hair"  as  slie  ended  this  sentence,  and  the  thin 
cui"ve  of  her  short  upper  lip  moved  like  ribbon  in 
the  wind,  and  she  would  have  cried  if  she  had 
not  relieved  her  feelings  with  giving  me  many 
more  kisses  and  caresses. 

On  her  becoming  calmer  I  continued  the  com- 
mencement of  my  one  lie.  I  told  her  that  when 
I  first  detected,  years  back,  that  Julian's  heart 
was  set  toward  her,  I  resolved — knowing  how 
high,  and  unselfish,  and  noble  he  was — that  she 
should  not  fail  to  esteem  him  through  not  having 
a  judicious  companion  by  her  side,  ever  ready  to 
direct  her  attention  to  his  fine  qualities.  I  told 
her  that  when  I  had  a  full  and  reasonable  as- 
surance that  she  felt  for  Julian  as  warmly  as  I 
could  wish  her,  I  was  so  elated  with  triumphant 
gladness  that  I  could  scarcely  forbear  break- 
ing through  that  reserve  w  liich  sisterly  care  and 
womanly  delicacy  enjoined  me  to  maintain  to- 
ward her.  I  told  her  that  the  occasions  "  when 
my  eyes  used  to  light  up  with  a  fire"  were  the 
occasions  when  I  found  it  most  difficult  to  re- 
strain my  impetuosity  and  curb  my  inclination 
to  congratulate  her  on  loving  and  having  secured 
the  love  of  the  man  whom,  beyond  all  others,  I 
wished  to  see  her  husband.  I  told  her  much 
more  in  the  same  strain. 

We  were  together  all  that  day  till  Julian's  re- 
turn ;  I  would  not  let  Etty  out  of  my  sight  for 
a  minute.  I  dared  not  be  alone.  There  was  a 
madness  in  my  veins  that  scared  me,  and  caused 
me  to  dread  myself,  and  cling  instinctively  to 
society. 

We  remained  in  the  beech  avenue  till  dinner, 
by  turns  sitting  on  the  bench  and  walking  up 
and  down.  We  talked  very  fast  and  confusedly 
of  the  past,  present,  and  future — each  thinking 
the  other  very  happy,  each  herself  too  excited 
for  real  enjoyment.  At  two  o'clock  we  went 
into  the  hall  and  dined  with  Mrs.  Skettlc,  my 
grandfather  having  gone  over  for  the  day  to 
Laughton.  jNIy  high  spirits  and  Etty's  face,  by 
turns  pale  and  flushed,  were  facts  that  ruffled 
even  Mrs.  Skettle's  tranquillity,  and  she  looked 
at  us  several  times  inquisitively  over  her  knife 
and  fork. 

"Mr.  Julian  Gower  has  been  here,  my  dears?'' 
observed  the  old  lady,  in  an  interrogative  tone, 
at  the  close  of  the  repast. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Skettle,"  I  answered,  seeing  an 
expression  of  nervousness  come  over  Etty's  face. 

"lie  didn't  stop  long?"  continued  the  old 
lady,  whose  curiosity  had  been  roused  by  Ju- 
lian's unexpected  visit  and  sudden  departure. 

"  Not  long ;  but  he'll  be  here  again  this  even- 


8G 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


ing  to  drink  tea  with  grandpajja.  He's  looking 
very  wclk" 

"Cuming  again  tliis  evening  !  Umph !  Then 
he'll  be  wanting  ]Mr.  Easy  to  do  him  some  fa- 
vor." 

"Not  a  doubt  about  that,''  I  answered,  with 
a  laugh,  as  Etty  flushed  scarlet  in  an  instant. 

"And  yet  he  isn't  in  the  ordinary  way  after 
wanting  favor-s,"  added  ^Irs.  Skettle,  very  per- 
plexed, and  unusually  fidgety. 

"Do  you  think,  Mrs.  k?kettle,  he  can  want 
me  for  his  wife,  and  is  bent  on  asking  grand- 
papa to  let  him  take  me  away  with  him  iu  that 
ca]iacity?" 

"Miss  Tree,  I  am  ashamed  of  you!"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Skettle,  tartly,  and  genuinely  of- 
fended. "I  am  ashamed  of  you,  talking  in 
such  a  way  before  a  child  like  Etty  !" 

This  was  too  much  for  Etty,  who  rose  quick- 
ly, and,  giving  JMrs.  Skettle  a  hurried  kiss  on 
her  way  to  the  door,  made  her  exit  from  the  hall 
before  grace  had  been  said. 

"  Lor,  Miss  Tree,  I  hope  I  ha^-e  not  offended 
Etty  by  calling  ^her  a  child!"  obsen'ed  Mi's. 
Skettle,  in  consternation. 

"  AYliat  a  ridiculous  notion  !  didn't  she  kiss 
you  ?"  I  said,  also  rising,  and  hastening  after 
Etty,  by  whose  side  I  again  was  ere  she  had 
been  a  minute  out  of  my  sight. 

My  grandfather  returned  to  tea,  and  had  a 
long  interview  with  Julian  before  that  entertain- 
ment. When  he  entered  the  room  with  my  dear 
old  school-fellow — or,  as  he  most  frequently  call- 
ed him,  "  that  promising  young  man" — by  his 
side,  he  seemed  cheerful  and  glad,  but  when  I 
had  sprung  fonvard  to  Julian,  and  after  greet- 
ing him  with  a  torrent  of  congratulations  and 
sisterly  good  wishes,  had  given  him  a  cup  of  tea 
to  present  to  Etty,  I  looked  again  at  my  grand- 
father, and  discerned  that  same  expression  of 
silent,  long-enduring  sadness  which  I  had  wit- 
nessed for  the  first  time  more  than  two  years  be- 
fore (when  I  asked  him  to  send  Etty  to  school), 
and  had  since  observed  more  than  once.  As  I 
regarded  him,  he  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  that  I 
was  watching  him.  The  good  old  man  did  not 
drop  his  eyes,  but  looked  me  full  in  the  face : 
and  I  in  return  met  his  gaze,  and  we  looked 
right  into  each  other's  hearts.  /  iconkl  not  lie 
looked  down.  Just  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  be- 
ing overcome  by  my  feelings,  and  laughing  hys- 
terically, my  grandfather  dropped  his  gaze,  and 
I  gained  the  victory.  After  that  I  could  not 
throughout  the  evening  catch  my  grandfather's 
eye,  though  I  repeatedly  watched  him,  and 
though  I  felt,  whenever  I  was  not  watching  him, 
that  his  observation  was  upon  me. 

After  tea  Julian  and  Etty  walked  about  the 
garden  together,  as  lovers  should;  and  I  in  the 
sombre  silence  of  the  beech  avenue  mused  by 
myself  on  the  days  when  Julian  and  I  were  in- 
separable companions,  and  we  occasionally  gave 
Etty  a  little  condescending  attention. 

It  was  the  period  of  the  year  when  the  even- 
ings close  in  rapidly ;  so,  notwithstanding  the 
early  hour  at  which  we  had  tea,  I  had  but  little 
time  for  my  solitary  meditations  ere  the  darkness 
and  cold  of  an  autumnal  night  were  around  me. 
Indoors  all  was  warm  and  bright,  the  talk  be- 
ing all  the  livelier  for  Julian's  high  sjnrits. 

"How  many  years  is  it  since  you  knew  'my 
secret?'"  inquired  he  of  me,  as  the  party  was 


breaking  up  at  a  later  hour  than  our  usual  time 
for  retiring  to  rest. 

"You  remember  our  talk  at  Lymm  Hall?"  I 
answered,  jiarrying  question  with  question. 

"Surely,"  was  his  answer. 

"Do  you  think  I  knew  any  thing  of  your  se- 
cret before  then  ?"  I  asked. 

"That's  w'hat  I  wish  to  know." 

"Julian  Gower,"  I  replied,  "I'll  answer  your, 
question  when  you  have  been  married  ten  years, 
if  after  those  ten  years  of  married  life  can  you 
say,  '  Little  Tibby  Tree,  wlio  helped  me  to  make 
love  to  her  beautiful  sister  Etty,  and  never  asked 
for  more  confidence  than  it  ^vas  my  humor  to 
jjlace  in  her,  was  a  true  friend  to  me  when  I  was 
a  boy,  and  now  that  I  have  been  married  ten 
years,  I  don't  know  where  to  look  (my  wife  ex- 
cepted) for  a  more  trust-worthy  and  sympathiz- 
ing companion !' " 

Then  little  Tibby  Tree  lighted  her  candle,  and 
climbed  the  black  oak  staircase,  having  first  given 
her  grandfather  a  kiss  without  looking  at  him. 

As  Etty  went  into  her  room  little  Tibby  Tree 
joined  the  happy  girl,  and  did  not  leave  her  till 
she  was  in  bed  ;  and  Etty  w«s  not  packed  in  bed 
that  night  until  she  had  had  much  more  talk  and 
cosseting  than  she  ordinarily  received  from  her 
sister  during  the  course  of  her  nightly  toilet. 

Then  little  Tibby  Tree  went  to  her  own  room  ; 
and  hours  after  eveiy  one  else,  including  even 
Etty,  was  sound  asleep,  she  sat  before  her  look- 
ing-glass, wondering  whether  she  would  have 
courage,  and  resolution,  and  constancy  enough 
to  act  her  "first  lie''  out  to  the  last.  Slowly  her 
candle  burned  down  to  its  last  two  inches,  w'hen 
it  spluttered  and  guttered  into  such  a  wrin ding- 
sheet  as  surely  was  never  before  witnessed  in  the 
superstitious  corn  countr}'  of  the  old  time.  The 
flame  went  down,  diminishing  till  it  was  nothing 
more  to  the  sight  than  a  minute  phosphorescent 
speck  on  a  piece  of  charred  wick.  Then  all  of  a 
sudden  it  flared  up  into  a  dazzling  blaze,  speedi- 
ly collapsing,  however,  into  a  long  fit  of  throb- 
bings  and  tlutterings,  which  terminated  in  its 
perishing  utterly,  and  leaving  the  victory  to  the 
darkness.  But  still  little  Tibby  Tree  retained 
her  seat,  thinking  how  ghastly  and  revolting 
the  semblance  of  her  pallid  ugliness  had  been  in 
the  mirror  the  while  the  candle-light  had  died 
in  convulsive  fiickeriugs — recalling  too,  strange- 
ly enough,  a  childish  pet  of  Etty's,  rather  more 
tlian  two  years  before,  when  the  beautiful  spoil- 
ed girl  had  said,  "  How  strange  it  is,  Tibby, 
that  I  should  have  to  obey  a  little  snub-nosed, 
waU-eyed  chit  like  you!" 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   LESSON   OF   THE   EOSK. 

Till  Julian's  vessel  sailed  from  Liverpool,  my 
life  was  so  full  of  excitement,  consequent  on  a 
continued  variety  of  incidents  requiring  a  cor- 
responding variety  of  effort  at  self-control,  that 
I  was  spared  the  i)ain  of  looking  out  years  be- 
fore me,  as  I  did  after  his  departure. 

But  when  he  had  looked  his  last  farewell  upon 
us,  and  I,  and  Etty,  and  my  dear  grandfather 
knew  that  we  should  not  be  warmed  by  his  smile 
for  five  long  years,  and  we  had  turned  away  from 
the  garden  (in  which  we  had  said  adieu  to  Ju- 


1 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


37 


linn),  and  by  different  paths  sought  out  the  soli- 
tude in  which  we  did  not  despair  of  finding  com- 
foi-t,  another  current  of  experiences  began  to 
set  in. 

For  many  days  Etty  was  very  subdued  and 
pensive.  A  silence,  that  contrasted  strongly  with 
her  ordinary  mood,  came  upon  her ;  and  the 
gentleness  of  her  sweet  disposition  was  intensi- 
fied. All  my  days  it  had  been  my  use  to  tend 
on  her,  but  now  she  insisted  on  playing  the  serv- 
ant to  me — waiting  upon  me,  fetching  and  car- 
rying for  me,  and  continually  coming  up  to  my 
side  and  stroking  my  scanty  tresses.  "Dear 
Tibby,"  she  once  said,  "you  must  teach  me  to 
be  like  you ;  forgetful  of  myself,  Ihoughful  of 
others,  and  cheerful  under  trial.  I  must  learn 
to  be  worthy  of  Julian.  It  is  the  only  occupa- 
tion that  will  make  me  endure  life  and  enjoy  the 
blessings  round  me,  now  he  is  away." 

I  knew  I  did  not  merit  such  commendation, 
but  it  pleased  me,  as  praise  always  does,  and  the 
more  as  it  was  evidence  she  had  not  detected  the 
sorrow  which  I  had  wrapped  up  in  my  lie. 

My  dear  grandfather  and  I  also  came  closer 
together.  Ever  since  Julian's  acceptance  by  Etty 
there  had  been  an  embarrassment  between  my 
grandfather  and  me.  He  knew  my  secret ;  I 
was  well  aware  he  knew  it;  and  he  knew  that  I 
had  that  knowledge  of  his  knowledge.  And  yet 
we  had  never  given,  the  either  to  the  other,  a 
single  hint  of  what  was  always  in  the  thoughts 
of  each.  We  felt  it  right  to  look  away  from  the 
secret,  and  so  with  an  awkward  consciousness 
of  mutual  constraint  we  used  to  look  away  from 
each  other.  This  new  and  unnamed  burden  on' 
our  intercourse  was  very  grievous  to  me.  But 
soon  my  dear  grandfather  removed  it  with  one 
of  those  simple  and  eloquent  courtesies,  of  which 
gentlemen  of  "  the  old  school"  were  consummate 
masters. 

It  was  late  in  the  autumn.  We  had  said 
good-by  to  roses,  Etty  and  I  having  weeks  be- 
fore plucked  the  last  of  the  scented  leaves  for 
our  annual  stock  of  ^'■pot  pourri"  when,  as  I 
descended  the  College  steps  after  breakfast  for 
an  hour's  exercise  in  the  dry  wind  and  leaves 
that  swept  over  the  garden  paths,  my  grandfa- 
ther approached  me  with  a  rose  in  his  hand  and 
a  rosy  light  in  his  countenance. 

"I  bring  you  an  offering,  lady,  a  rare  treas- 
ure at  this  time  of  the  year.  I  found  it  in  a 
warm  corner,  all  by  itself,  and  crowning  the  top 
of  a  blighted  bush  that  seemed  not  to  have  sap 
enough  to  feed  its  own  dry  sticks.  And  when  I 
plucked  it,  I  said,  '  I'll  bear  it  to  a  lady  who  is 
wise  enough  to  find  a  lesson  in  it — that — '  " 

He  paused,  for  he  knew  his  words  were  not 
needed  to  point  the  moral  of  the  rose. 

"I  will  keep  it,  dear,"  I  said,  slowly,  looking 
at  him  so  that  he  might  see  I  wished  my  words 
to  convey  their  full  meaning,  "and  even  when 
it  is  dead  I'll  read  its  lesson — that  there  is  no 
lot  in  life  so  stern,'  and  cold,  and  hard,  but  that 
it  has  somewhere  a  warm  and  secret  corner  in 
which  human  affection  can  blossom.  Be  sure 
of  that,  dear.  I  am  glad  you  see  so  well  that  I 
stand  in  need  of  such  a  lesson.  It  comforts,  dnd 
will  comfort  me  to  know  that  the  sympatliy  of 
your  fine  nature  surrounds  my  sorrow  and  weak- 
ness, tliough  we  shall  never  talk  about  them." 

The  dear  old  man  only  said,  "God  bless  thee, 
child!" 


"And,  dear,"  I  added,  more  in  my  customa- 
ry tone  of  matter-of-fact  cheerfulness,  "  I  am'  go- 
ing to  change  my  bedroom  for  one  distant  from 
Etty's.  You  see,  sometimes  I  shall  sit  up,  and 
be  wakeful  during  the  night,  and  might  disturl) 
Etty  in  my  jjresent  quarters.  So  I  mean  to  seek 
out  my  own  '  warm,  secret  corner,'  like  the  rose. 
rerhai)S  when  I  come  down  to  breakfast  in  the 
morning  you'll  have  sometimes  to  kiss  a  pale, 
white  face,  and  look  at  two  leaden  eyes  that 
have  slci>t  but  ill ;  but  you  won't  mind  that,  for 
you'll  know  I  have  only  been  trying  to  carry  out 
the  teaching  of  the  rose." 

]My  grandfather  made  no  answer;  but  as  I 
moved  away  to  the  beech  avenue  he  raised  his 
old  three-cornered  hat  from  his  gray  locks,  and 
remained  uncovered  as  lon^j  as  I  was  in  sight. 
Had  I  been  a  queen  he  coidd  not  have  done 
more.  His  homage  was  so  simple  and  full  of 
dignity,  and  so  eloquent  of  his  loyal  nature.  I 
was  his  little  grand-daughter,  whom  he  had 
nursed  on  his  knee  and  reared  with  parental  so- 
licitude ;  but  not  to  her  was  his  reverence  offered. 
I  was  tried  to  the  full  endurance  of  which  a  wo- 
man's heart  is  capable,  and  I  was  endeavoring 
to  bear  my  lot  with  becoming  fortitude.  For 
the  moment,  my  suffering  and  appropriate  res- 
olution were  to  him  tj'pes  of  certain  qualities 
which  in  all  ages  have  drawn  to  women  the  love 
and  fealty  of  generous  men.  To  them — and  not 
to  me — he  stood  uncovered  with  the  autumn 
wind  buffeting  his  white  hair. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A   DEIVE    OVER   THE    RED    LE.WES. 

A  FEAV  days  after  my  grandfather  had  pointed 
out  to  me  the  lesson  of  the  rose,  he  surprised  me 
by  announcing  in  a  cheery  voice  that  he  was 
bent  on  driving  his  little  horse  over  to  Laugh- 
ton,  and  should  be  well  pleased  with  my  com- 
pany on  the  exciu-sion. 

A  journey  to  Laughton  was  a  rare  event  with      i 
my  grandfather,  although  it  was  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal towns  of  our  division  of  the  corn  country, 
was  only  twelve  miles  distant  from  Farnham 
Cobb,  and  was,  moreover,  the  place  in  which 
resided  Mr.  Gurley,  the  solicitor  of  the  Reverend      1 
Solomon  Easy,  of  Farnham  Cobb  College.     Cer- 
tainly my  grandfather  did  not  on  the  average 
pay  more  than  two  visits  a  year  to  the  market- 
town,  and  those  two  visits  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  making  without  a  companion,  and  since  his  • 
last  expedition  to  Laughton  only  a  few  weeks 
had  elapsed.     I  had  therefore  reason  to  feel  sur- 
prised at  his  pro]iosal. 

Of  course  I  did  not  decline  the  invitation. 
Laughton  was  still  to  me  a  grand  centre  of  in- 
telligence. Its  population  of  three  thousand  in-  • 
habitants,  its  member  of  Parliament,  its  market, 
the  legal  proceedings  at  its  magistrates'  sittings, 
its  book-club,  its  supply  of  "Paris  fashions,"  its 
turnpike-road,  with  four  " up"  and  four  "down" 
coaches  a  day,  made  it  a  great  oljject  of  interest 
to  me.  The  fact  that  Julian  had  been  educated 
in  its  grammar  school  did  not  make  me  less  cu- 
rious about  it,  and  yet  in  the  whole  course  of  my 
life  I  had  not  been  a  dozen  times  in  the  streets 
of  Laughton  ;  my  last  visit  to  it  being  on  the  oc- 
casion of  my  last  return  from  school,  when  I 


38 


OLHE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  "WORK. 


was  deposited  by  the  guard  of  "The  Telepra]ih" 
at  the  "Bhie  Boar,"  and  was  received  by  my 
giuiidfather,  who,  without  an  interval  of  tliree 
minutes,  ]nit  me  and  my  boxes  in  a  hired  chaise 
and  drove  me  oif  to  Farnliam  Cobb. 

Mv  grandfatlier  liad  some  reason  for  dislik- 
ing Laughton,  and  never  entered  it  save  when 
business  compelled  him.  The  same  dislike  made 
him  uneasy  when  any  member  of  his  family  went 
there.  The  consequence  was  that  I  and  Etty 
were  cut  off  from  one  communication  with  the 
outer  world,  ^\liieh  girls  living  in  a  secluded 
country  district  usually  enjoy.  Our  shopj)ing 
was  all  done  at  the  petty  shojjs  of  our  own  and 
two  neighboring  villages,  and  when  those  estab- 
lishments could  not  su]iply  our  wants  they  went 
unsupplied,  unless  one  of  tlie  village  dealers 
obligingly  went  over  to  Laughton  for  the  re- 
quired article.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  this 
tended  to  raise  Laughton  in  our  estimation.  It, 
was  an  emporium  for  articles  of  taste  and  lux- 
ury, which  we  could  not  arrive  at  save  through 
the  agency  of  our  neighbors. 

A  drive  to  Laughton  was  therefore  pleasant  as 
a  jiroposal,  and  was  not  less  agreeable  as  an  actf- 
ual  experience. 

My  grandfather  was  in  the  best  of  spirits  as 
we  drove  through  the  lanes,  smootli  and  dry  for 
the  time  of  year,  but  still  quite  free  from  dust. 
On  either  side  of  the  ways  the  red  leaves  lay  in 
heaps,  at  places  effectually  muffling  our  wheels, 
that  were  only  too  much  given  to  rattling.  The 
bare  branches  of  the  stripped  timber  ran  up  to  a 
lofty  angle  over  our  heads,  and  through  their 
stark  cordage  were  visible  the  gray  clouds  which, 
tliough  they  altogether  fenced  out  the  dazzle  of 
the  sun,  were  far  from  gloomy.  Fashionable 
ladies  often  tell  mc  nowadays  that  "the  fixU  of 
the  leaf"  is  an  unhealthy  season,  which  can  only 
be  passed  with  security  by  the  sea-side,  or  in  a 
few  high,  dry,  and  singidarly  favored  localities. 
It  may  he  so,  but  I  never  found  it  out  when  I 
lived  in  the  "  corn  country"  in  the  good  old 
time. 

Occasionall)'  our  course  was  enlivened  by  the 
reports  of  guns  fired  in  the  covers  flanking  the 
lanes,  or  on  distant  ridges — clear,  clean,  mellow 
percussions,  that  ])leasantly  broke  the  monotony 
of  the  low  humming  wind.  My  grandfather 
had  not  "shot"  for  several  years,  but  he  divert- 
ed mc  with  a  series  of  sporting  anecdotes,  from 
which  it  appeared  that  he  was  in  his  day  one 
of  the  quickest  and  surest  "guns"  in  the  corn 
country.  These  stories  led  him  to  "the  game" 
which  the  peasants  with  zealous  and  nnbought 
service  used  to  preserve  for  him  at  Sandhill,  the 
mention  of  wliich  locality  induced  him  next  to 
speak  of  Mr.  Michael  Chnvline  in  the  old  terras 
of  hearty  eulogy.  "He  is  an  excellent  and  most 
honest  fellow,  the  best  bailiff  in  the  whole  coun- 
ty, and  sincerely  attailied  to  me.  Like  all  old 
servants  he  is  sometimes  a  little  jealous  about 
liis  dignity,  and  so  on  ;  and  then  I  have  to  come 
down  sharp  upon  him,  and  ask  him  if  he  knows 
what  his  master's  name  is,  and  tliat's  a  little  dis- 
agreeable. But  then  I  know  him  so  thorough- 
ly that  I  can  manage  him  with  very  little  diffi- 
cidty."  As  my  granilfatlier  uttered  these  words 
he  looked  round  at  me,  and  twirled  his  whip  em- 
pliatically,  as  though  he  would  have  relislied  an 
expression  of  assent  on  my  jiart.  But  I  could 
not  find  heart  to  encourage  liim  in  that  way ; 


for  somehow,  in  spite  of  my  sincere  wish  to  live 
in  charity  with  all  my  fellow-crcatnrcs,  there 
liad  grown  up  within  me  a  distrust  of  Mr.  Claw- 
line.  Ever  since  Julian  had  in  the  harvest  field 
indulged  in  a  fit  of  indignation  against  Michael 
Clawline  for  disdaining  to  "strip  tew  his  wark," 
I  had  watched  that  bailiff  more  closely,  and  crit- 
icised him  more  shrewdly,  and  the  result  was  I 
did  not  like  him.  Of  course  I  did  not  tell  my 
grandfather  so. 

More  than  two  or  three  times  as  we  drew 
nearer  to  Laughton  we  encountered  a  ponderous 
family  coach,  belonging  to  one  of  the  surround- 
ing gentry.  In  those  days  wealthy  yeomen  gen- 
try, living  ordinarily  in  the  same  kitchens  with 
their  servants,  and  enjoying  the  society  of  the 
village  ale-houses,  felt  their  dignity  concerned  in 
keeping  up  their  old  family  coaches.  Wonder- 
ful structures  they  were !  Built  some  hundred 
years  before,  big  enough  to  hold  a  dozen  persons, 
clamped  at  every  corner  with  heavy  iron  bands, 
possessing  windows  so  small  that  an  inside  pas- 
senger could  only  look  through  them,  one  eye 
at  a  time,  and  made  with  a  box  elevated  ten  or 
twelve  feet  above  the  ground,  they  had  been 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation, 
been  bequeathed  as  valuable  legacies,  been  treat- 
ed as  heir-looms.  They  were  drawn  by  two, 
four,  or  six  hairj'-legged  cart-horses  taken  from 
the  plow,  and  were  driven  now  by  one  farm 
servant,  now  by  another — the  same  ]ionderous 
coat,  covered  with  tarnished  lace,  being,  how- 
ever, used  by  the  Jehu,  M'hoever  he  might  be. 
TL'he  yeoman  pro])rietor,  of  course,  never  climbed 
into  one  of  these  locomotive  strong-holds.  He 
rode  on  horseback.  For  unmixed  enjoyment  or 
ordinary  farm-house  intercoui-se  his  lady  also 
rode  her  stout  nag  (on  a  pillion);  but  she  "had 
out  the  family  coach"  every  Sunday  to  go  to 
church,  because  it  was  both  dignified  and  jnons, 
its  use  (like  the  employment  of  Sunday  clothes) 
enhancing  the  resjiectability  of  the  family,  and 
showing  res])ect  to  the  Lord  of  the  Day.  She 
"had  it  out"  also  whenever  she  drove  into  the 
nearest  county  town,  because  it  Mas  dignified 
and  vsr/ul;  its  panels  displaying  the  family  quai- 
terings,  and  its  capacious  interior  affording  am- 
ple room  for  the  heavy  wares  of  grocery,  dra- 
])ery,  and  vintner's  stuff",  which  had  to  be  period- 
ically conveyed  from  "town"  to  the  "manor- 
house."  In  my  childhood  I  have  seen  in  "the 
corn  country"  as  many  as  six  of  these  lumber- 
ing vehicles  round  a  village  church  during  an 
ordinary  Sunday  sei-vice,  their  owners  (yeomen 
farmers  as  they  called  themselves,  gentry  as  they 
deemed  themselves)  being  inhabitants  of  the 
]}arish  whose  church  they  thus  honored.  In 
less  conservative  districts  smart  bounding  gigs 
cxijclled  these  lumbering  equipages  at  the  0]ien- 
ing  of  the  jiresent  century  ;  but  in  the  corn  coun- 
try they  lingered  on  for  another  generation. 

Such  were  the  carnages  my  grandfather  and 
I  encountered  as  we  trundled  over  the  red  leaves 
toward  Laughton. 

""Why,  grandj)ajia,"  I  exclaimed,  "wc  never 
went  this  way  before!" 

"No,  my  dear,"  he  answered,  filliping  up  the 
little  horse,  "I  have  alwaj-s  driven  into  Laugh- 
ton by  another  road — for  a  purpose." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  with  marked  sig- 
nificance ;  but  instead  of  asking  what  the  "pur- 
pose" might  be,  I  quietly  held  my  peace,  and 


I 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


89 


waited  till  further  explanation  should  come  spon- 
taneously. 

Emeriiinj:^  from  a  tunnel  of  dove-tailing 
brauches,  we  passed  from  the  soft  bed  of  leaves 
beneath  them  to  tlie  hard  white  turnpike-road. 
Startled  l)y  the  chanj^c  of  sound  consecpientupon 
the  wheels  and  his  hoofs  aeting  on  a  tirmer  sur- 
face, the  little  horse  broke  into  a  canter,  and  we 
rattled  merrily  down  the  turnpike-road,  between 
the  palings  and  skirting  wood  of  a  gentleman's 
park,  and  with  the  town  of  Laughtou  lying  in  a 
valley,  about  a  mile  before  us. 

"What  is  that  house,  grandpapa?  what  a 
beautiful  place  it  is!"  I  exclaimed,  as  a  man- 
sion of  Italian  architecture,  seated  on  the  bold- 
est swell  of  a  fine  hill  ridge,  and  surrounded  by 
the  magnificent  trees  of  the  finest  wooded  park 
I  have  ever  seen  in  my  life,  burst  upon  my  sight. 

The  hill  ridge  declined  toward  us,  down  to 
the  marge  of  a  piece  of  artificial  water,  almost 
large  enough  to  deserve  the  title  of  a  "lake," 
and  ornamented  with  little  islands,  beautifully 
planted  for  the  accommodation  of  the  aquatic 
birds  that  were  playing  in  separate  companies  at 
ditferent  points  of  the  water.  The  bank  on  our 
side  rose  with  a  gentle  acclivity,  which  was  uni- 
formly maintained  by  the  park,  until  it  reached 
the  level  of  the  high-road,  from  which  it  was  only 
separated  by  one  of  Kent's  ha-ha's.  A  similar 
sunk  fence  ran  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  be- 
yond which  the  park  extended,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  through  avenues,  vistas,  clumps, 
and  belts ;  the  large  park,  even  in  its  most  re- 
mote parts,  having  been  laid  out  by  a  designer 
anxious  to  illustrate  on  a  magnificent  scale  the 
rules  of  that  art  from  which  Humphrey  Repton 
(the  "Suffolk"  Gardener)  subsequently  derived 
his  title  of  Landscape  Gardener. 

I  was  so  lost  in  the  beauties  of  the  park, 
through  which  we  were  literally  driving,  and 
the  attractions  of  which  we  could  (thanks  to  the 
liberality  of  the  sunk  fences !)  see  at  our  ease, 
that  I  forgot  to  repeat  my  question,  but  left  my 
grandfather  at  his  leisure  to  answer  it  about  a 
minute  after  it  was  asked. 

"  The  place  is  called  'Laughton  Abbey,' "  said 
my  grandfather  ;  "  there,  behind  yon  trees,  down 
at  tlie  turn  of  the  water,  you  may  see  the  ruins 
of  the  old  abbey  from  which  that  fine  gewgaw 
place  takes  its  name." 

He  checked  the  little  horse  to  a  slow  walk,  in 
order  that  I  might  have  time  to  survey  the 
scene,  and  as  he  spoke  pointed  with  his  whip  in 
the  direction  of  the  ruins,  far  lovelier  to  look 
upon  in  their  gray  age  than  the  palace  crowning 
the  hill  above  them. 

"  I  spent  much  of  my  time  in  that  house  when 
I  was  a  young  man,"  my  grandfather  said,  slow- 
ly :  "it  was  for  a  few  weeks  the  home  to  me  of 
a  brief  happiness  ;  it  has  been  for  threescore  years 
the  source  of  a  long-enduring  pain.  That  house 
knows  the  reason  why  I  never  come  into  this 
to\vn  without  the  renewal  of  an  old  grief,  and 
yet  can  not  altogether  keep  myself  from  it.  Till 
the  other  day  I  didn't  wish  you  ever  to  see  it ; 
but  you  have  more  claim  on  my  confidence  than 
ever.  You  can  name  now  a  jiart  of  my  motives 
for  never  before  showing  you  the  place." 

While  he  sjioke  we  were  progressing  slowly, 
and  as  he  finished  we  had  reached  a  new  point 
of  interest.  On  our  right  hand,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  a  circle  of  lofty  elms,  appeared  Laugh- 


ton  church,  its  high  flint  tower  facing  the  road, 
and  looking  at  a  picturesque  cottage  ornee,  sit- 
uated on  the  opjiosite  side  of  the  road,  in  a  cor- 
iu;r  of  the  park.  The  church  was  a  beautiful  ed- 
ifice, and  the  cottage  was  the  jirettiest  structure 
of  the  kind  imaginable.  A  garden  surrounded 
the  picturesque  little  dwelling,  which  was  then 
undergoing  repair  at  the  hands  of  a  strong  band 
of  cari)cnters,  whose  exertions  were  at  that  very 
moment  being  superintended  by  Mr.  Gurley. 

"Ah!  ha!"  exclaimed  JMr.  Gurley,  looking  7 
squarcr  than  ever,  and  running  out  of  the  gar- 
den  to  greet  us  in  some  such  fashion  as  a  very 
stout  old  oak  box  might  be  supposed  to  run,  "  my 
dear  old  friend,  Mr.  Solomon  Easy,  and  Miss 
Tree.  My  dear  Miss  Tree,  allow  me  to  welcome 
you  to  Laughton.  You  so  rarely  visit  us  it  is 
really  quite  an  event  to  see  you  here.  You 
should  have  come  before  the  leaves  were  off  the 
tr  JOS.  But  now  you  are  here.  Miss  Tree,  tell  us 
haw  you  like  the  look  of  iis  ?" 

Mr.  Gurley's  question  had  no  immediate  rela- 
tion to  himself,  but  to  the  property  of  which  he 
was  (as  I  soon  found  out)  steward,  and  was  (as  I 
also  soon  found  out)  as  proud  of  as  if  it  belonged 
to  himself. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  place  ;  but  really,  Mr.  Gur- 
ley," I  answered,  "I  admire  the  cottage  you  are 
now  putting  in  repair  as  much  as  any  thing  1 
have  at  present  seen." 

"A  pretty  thing,  certainly,  a  very  pretty 
thing,"  answered  Mr.  Gurley,  putting  out  his 
square  lump  of  a  hand  patronizingly,  as  if  he 
wished  to  pat  the  cottage  on  the  back,  "but  a 
mere  toy.  A  part  of  the  property  you  see.  And 
as  long  as  I  am  the  steward  of  this  property,  and 
am  responsible  for  the  pi-eservation  of  this  prop- 
erty, I'll  have  every  thing  in  repair.  That's  my 
rule.  The  carpenters  and  bricklayers  don't  ob- 
ject to  it,  I  can  tell  you.  Still,  it  is  a  pretty 
thing.  Miss  Tree,  I'll  remember  you  call  it,  and 
think  it,  a  pretty  thing.  Perhaps  one  of  these 
days  you  may  want  a  pretty  little  toy  of  a  cottage, 
and  then  I  shall  know  where  to  find  a  good  ten- 
ant for  the  Laughton  Abbey  property.  Now, 
Mr.  Easy,  what  arc  you  going  to  do  to-day  ?" 

My  grandfather  blushed  a  little  as  he  answer- 
ed, "Well,  Mr.  Gurley,  to  tell  you  all  my  plans, 
Tibby  and  I  are  going  to  look  over  the  Abbey 
to-day — the  house  I  mean,  the  inside  of  it."  ' 

"  Exactly, "  said  Mr.  Gurley,  raising  the  square 
lids  of  his  eyes,  and  taking  a  jiinch  of  suufi'. 

"You  see,"  added  mj'  grandfather,  in  an  ex- 
planatory manner,  and  with  more  of  an  apolo- 
getic tone  than  was  altogether  consistent  with 
Iiis  usual  dignity  of  bearing,  "  it's  only  to  gratify 
me  with  a  review  of  old  associations.  There  can 
be  no  harm  in  gratifying  a  taste  for  old  associa- 
tions." 

"Unless  they  lead  to  expense,"  put  in  Mr. 
Gurley,  sententiously.  "I  remember  that  con- 
sideration always,  whenever  I  am  asked  my  opin- 
ion about  an  indulgence  of  any  kind.  Bless  you, 
I  can  point  to  scores  of  noble  and  opulent  fami- 
lies irrecoverably  impoverished  by  simply  in- 
dulging in  old  associations.  Old  associations, 
Mr.  Easy,  are  sometimes  very  dangerous  asso- 
ciates. A  passion  for  the  turf  is  sometimes  less 
mischievous  than  a  taste  for  old  associations."' 

"Well,"  returned  my  grandfather,  laughing 
with  genuine  pleasure  at  his  lawyer's  worldly 
shrewdness  and  energetic  manner,  "old  asso- 


40 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


ciations  won't  niin  me  to-day.  Five  shillings  to 
tlio  housekeeper  will  just  about  cover  the  ex- 
pense." 

"Come  and  tell  me  sD  this  evening  over  a 
mutton  cutlet  and  a  glass  of  my  old  Madeira." 

"Will  you  be  idone?"  inquired  my  grandfii- 
thcr. 

Mr.  Gurley's  countenance  fell,  for  he  knew 
Avhat  would  be  the  result  of  his  reply.  "Almost 
alone.     Nobody  but  Choatc  and  his  daughters." 

"Pah!"  exclaimed  my  grandfather,  with  a 
look  of  lively  disgust  in  his  countenance :  ' '  what, 
tlie  young  man  who  plays  such  an  insuflferahle 
game  of  whist !  No,  no,  Gurley ;  I  couldn't 
sit  in  the  same  room  for  half  an  hour  with  that 
young  ijaan  without  (old  as  I  am)  tiying  to  thrash 
him." 

"  He's  wonderfully  improved,"  said  Mr.  Gur- 
ley, laughing.     "  Come  and  judge  for  yourself." 

"No,  no!  I'll  come  some  other  day  when 
you  haven't  the  young  man  with  you,"  said  my 
grandfather,  whisking  his  whip,  and  driving  on 
to  the  Blue  Boar,  High  Street,  Laughton. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


LAUGHTON     ABBEY. 


Tub  little  horse  having  been  consigned  to  the 
hostler  of  the  Blue  Boar,  we  walked  back  up  the 
High  Street,  and  turning  to  our  left  througli  the 
clmrch-yard,  crossed  the  bridge  which  spanned 
"the  fall"  of  the  park-water,  and  in  half  an 
hour  were  standing  at  the  chief  entrance  of  the 
mansion. 

The  door  was  answered  by  a  maid-servant, 
who,  on  seeing  my  grandfather,  immediately 
ran  for  Mrs.  Tate,  the  housekeeper. 

"Lor,  your  reverence,  who'd  have  thought  of 
seeing  you  again  so  soon  ?"  exclaimed  that  lady, 
with  loquacious  good-humor.  "Why  it  were 
but  the  other  day  that  your  reverence  did  us  the 
honor  of  a  visit.  And  your  reverence's  visits  are 
visits !    My  best  respects  to  you,  ma'am." 

"My  grand-daughter,  Mrs.  Tate,"  said  my 
grandfather,  briefly  introducing  me  to  the  re- 
spectable and  elderly  dame ;  and  adding,  as  an 
explanation  for  my  benefit — "I  am  in  the  habit 
of  coming  here  once  a  year  or  so,  Til)by.  My 
last  call  was  made  a  few  weeks  since,  on  the  very 
same  day  on  which  our  dear  boy  Julian  jiaid  us 
his  unexpected  visit.  Mrs.  Tate  is  so  good  as  to 
gratify  an  old  man's  wliim,  and  let  him  wander 
at  his  leisure  through  the'  rooms  in  which,  as  a 
boy,  he  spent  many  ha])py  hours.  It's  very  good 
of  her." 

Mrs.  Tate's  face  beamed  with  satisfaction  at 
this  respectful  style  of  language,  and  she  broke 
in  with — "  And  I  should  like  to  know,  your  rev- 
erence, who  has  a  better  right  to  walk  through 
the  rooms  than  you,  unless  it  be — " 

"Hish!  hish!"  i)ut  in  my  grandfather,  rais- 
ing his  hand  dcprecatingly.  "  Never  mind  that 
now.     Let  by-gones  be  by-gones." 

"As  your  reverence  ])leases,"  responded  the 
good  woman.  "Of  course  on  such  matters  my 
tongue  is  your  reverence's.  And  here.  Sir,  are 
the  keys." 

Taking  the  keys,  my  grandfather  crossed  the 
hall,  and  ojicning  a  door  with  one  of  them,  led 
me  into  a  long  picture-gallery,  closing  the  lock' 


carefully  behind  us.  Every  turn  in  the  mansion 
was  known  to  him.  Throngh  a  series  of  ajjart- 
ments,  all  of  them  appearing  to  my  unsophisti- 
cated eyes  as  of  uua))proachable  magnificence, 
although  the  furniture  was  covered  with  chint» 
wrai)])crs,  we  ))assed.  On  the  ground-fioor  a 
succession  of  lofty  drawing-rooms,  a  banqueting' 
room,  a  billiard-room,  a  concert-room,  a  superb' 
ly-fitted  library,  divers  cozy  little  parlors;  uy 
stairs  a  still  greater  number  of  bedrooms,  dress' 
ing-rooms,  morning-rooms,  boudoirs,  snuggeries, 
with  a  perplexing  intricacy  of  ])assagcs,  corri- 
dors, and  staircases !  Every  spot  and  article 
had  a  freshness  and  brightness  tiiat  testified  the 
house  was  not  deserted  by  the  wealthy.  What- 
ever its  history  might  be,  it  was  clear  that  its 
ordinary  occupants  were  by  no  means  confined 
to  Mrs.  Tate  and  her  maid. 

"Who  is  the  owner  of  this  splendid  place, 
grandfather?"  I  inquired,  when  we  had  contin- 
ued our  inspection  in  unbroken  silence  for  at 
least  half  an  hour. 

"  Hush  !  don't  ask  questions  yet.  I'll  tell  you 
all  by-and-by,"  he  answered,  somewhat  gruffly. 
"Be  silent  now,  and  look  at  a  portrait  I  will 
show  you." 

These  words  were  exchanged  in  a  room  fitted- 
itp  as  a  music-room,  with  a  piano-forte,  harp, 
and  other  instruments — a  room  that  would  have 
been  a  feature  of  an  ordinary  country-house,  but 
was  lost  in  that  superb  ])alace.  The  last  of  them 
was  scarcely  uttered  when  my  grandfather  press- 
ed with  his  hand  against  a  concealed  spring,  and 
a  secret  door  flew  open,  revealing  the  daintiest, 
most  costly,  and  exquisite  boudoir  that  surely 
ever  a  daughter  of  wealth  possessed  for  purposes 
of  luxurious  retirement.  The  walls  were  cov- 
ered with  rose-colored  satin,  a  velvet  carpet  of 
the  same  tint  made  the  feet  fall  silent  on  the 
floor;  through  glass  of  the  same  delicate  color 
the  liglit  came  in  from  the  park ;  the  door,  win- 
dow-frames, and  all  the  wood-work  necessary  in 
such  a  closet  were  of  polished  rose-wood ;  the 
cornices,  door-handles,  and  mantle-piece  were  of 
ivory  inlaid  with  gold  and  valuable  stories ;  and 
a  corresponding  lavish  ex]5cnditure  of  wealth 
was  manifest  in  every  article  of  furniture. 

And  the  picture  ?  There  it  was  ;  the  one  sole 
object  of  which  my  grandfiithcr's  eyes  took  no- 
tice !  A  portrait  of  a  you7ig  and  lovely  woman ; 
a  woman  not  less  beautiful  than  Etty,  and  in 
some  respects — such  as  the  long  neck,  delicate 
outline  of  features,  golden  hair,  and  blue  ej'es — 
bearing  a  considerable  resemblance  to  her.  In 
an  evening  dress,  her  snowy  arms  and  shoulders 
bare  in  their  dazzling  whiteness,  her  rich  tresses 
looped  with  strings  of  softly  effulgent  pearls,  and 
the  stomacher  of  her  ball-dress  flashing  with  dia- 
monds !  Dignified,  but  without  a  touch  of  arro- 
gance or  pride.     Gentle,  delicate,  coy ! 

"  Grandfather,  come  away, "  I  said.  "  Come 
away.     I've  seen  her." 

I  sjioke  these  words,  for  there  was  that  in  my 
dear  grandfather's  face  which  positively  fright- 
ened me*  He  was  so  entranced  by  that  lovely 
])ortrait,  a  nervous  dread  ran  through  me  that 
the  deep  emotion  it  roused  might  have  even  a 
more  jiaiufid  result  than  a  temporary  overthrow 
of  self-control. 

"That  was  Gertrude  Clare,"  he  said,  hoarse- 
ly, turning  away,  and  hastening  back  to  the  mu- 
sic-room without  another  word. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


41 


He  sat  on  a  sofa  in  that  room  for  several  min- 
utes, till  tlie  blood  had  returned  to  his  whiten- 
ed cheek  and  he  had  recovered  his  eomposure. 
Then  he  rose,  and  leading  mc  back  to  the  large 
^picture-gallery  on  the  ground-floor  —  ))ast  the 
portraits  of  armed  knights,  and  rutfed  sages, 
and  plumed  warriors,  and  ringlet-wearing  gal- 
hmts  —  directed  my  attention  to  a  full-length 
portrait  of  a  handsome  soldier,  who  woi-e  a  scar- 
let uniform  of  a  comjjaratively  modern  fashion. 
My  grandfather  had  no  need  to  tell  me  the  of- 
ficer's name,  for  on  the  frame,  beneath  the 
spurred  feet,  was  painted,  "  Sir  JMarmaduke 
Clare,  K.C.B." 

"  He  was  Gertrude's  husband,"  said  my  grand- 
fiitiier,  curtly. 

In  less  than  five  minutes  w'e  had,  with  an  ap- 
propriate acknowledgment,  returned  the  bor- 
rowed keys  to  JNIrs.  Tate,  and  were  again  walk- 
ing in  tlie  park. 

"And  now,  Tibby,"  said  my  grandfather,  sit- 
ting down  on  a  clump  of  fallen  stone  amidst  the 
abljey  ruins,  to  which  our  steps  had  taken  us, 
.  "  I'll  tell  you  a  story — a}',  the  story  of  my  life." 

He  waited  till  I  had  nestled  down  at  his  feet, 
on  the  ground,  careless  of  autumn  damp  and 
wind,  as  a  country  girl  ought  to  be;  and  then 
he  proceeded : 

.  '•  When  I  was  a  lad,  fresh  from  college,  I  was 
itutor  to  the  heir  of  this  noble  estate,  Arthur 
Jciare  by  name.  He  was  a  noble  boy,  but  he 
died  early,  when  he  had  been  my  pupil  scarcely 
two  years  ;  and  his  great  wealth  devolved  on  his 
only  sister,  Gei'trude,  the  lovely  girl  whose  por- 
trait, you  saw  just  now.  Young  as  he  was,  and 
short  as  was  my  connection  with  him,  Arthur 
had  formed  a  warm  attachment  to  me,  and  I 
was  treated  by  him  and  all  the  members  of  his 
family  with  a  familiarity  and  respect  not  usual- 
ly exhibited  to  the  tutors  of  the  wealthy  by  their 
employers.  Well,  I  was  mad  enough — fool 
enough — to  fall  in  love  with  Gertrude  Clare, 
who  was  her  brother's  senior  by  two  years.  She 
had  tlien  no  great  possessions  or  expectations, 
and  I  was  of  a  gentle  yeoman  fiiraily,  with  an 
affluent  father,  and  the  culture  of  a  gentleman  ; 
so  my  presumption  was  not  at  first  so  enormous 
as  it  afterward  appeared — as  it  still  appears. 
Any  how,  I  vowed  that  Gertrude  Clare  should 
be  my  wife.  •  I  had  a  brother  in  those  daj's,  and 
I  made  him  the  sole  confidant  of  my  hopes ;  ex- 
plaining to  him  my  resolve,  and  at  the  same  time 
describing  all  the  ditficulties  in  my  way — above 
all,  the  difticulty  of  hinting  my  passion  to  a  lady 
so  much  my  social  superior.  Having  gone  thus 
fiir,  I  contrived  to  introduce  ray  brother  to  Ar- 
thur Clare,  and  so  obtained  for  him  an  invita- 
tion to  Laughton,  where  he  soon  became  a  fre- 
quent visitor,  and  even  a  greater  favorite  than 
myself." 

He  paused  for  a  minute,  leaving  me  to  imag- 
ine a  cruel  drama.  I  had  never  before  heard 
my  grandfather  speak  of  his  brother,  never  even 
knew  that  he  had  had  one. 

"  Well,  Tibby,  like  many  other  young  men,  I 
wooed  ill  vain.  Gertrude  Clare  made  another 
choice — a  choice  disapproved  by  her  guardians 
— and  eloped  with  a  man  not  better  born  than 
myself,  and  not  very  much  richer.  And  I,  out 
of  no  higher  motive  than  spite,  led  to  church  an 
honest  farmer's  daughter — a  pure,  simple  girl, 
but  in  every  respect  much  beneath  my  condi- 


tion. I  never  wronged  her ;  and  she  did  nmch 
better  by  me  than  1  descrveil  in  presenting  me 
with  a  charming  daughter — in  due  course,  my 
dear,  to  become  your  mother." 

"Dear  grandfather,"  said  1,  foolishly  think- 
ing that  such  silly  words  could  comfort  him, 
"Gertrude  Clare  was  not  w^orthy  of  you." 

"Lord,  Tibby  darling,"  he  said,  with  some- 
thing like  a  laugh  softening  his  bitterness,  rais- 
ing as  he  spoke  his  right  arm  to  his  eyes,  "  what 
does  that  matter  to  a  man  who's  in  love  ?  I 
knew  that  as  well  then  as  you  do  now,  but  tlw 
knowledge  no  more  comforts  me  now  than  it  did 
then.  I  tell  thee,  if  in  my  bitterest  grief  I  could 
but  have  said,  '  She's  far  too  good  for  me,  and 
'tis  better  for  her  as  it  is,'  my  trouble  would  have 
been  lightened  by  one-half.  I  woirld  cut  ofl'  my 
right  hand  to  be  able  even  now  to  say  it  hon- 
estly." 

' '  And  who  was  Gertrude's  husband  ? — a  blood 
relation  ?"  I  inquired,  the  name  of  Marmaduke 
Clare  misleading  me. 

"What!  haven't  I  been  plain  enough?"  ex- 
claimed my  grandfather,  with  excitement — in- 
deed, almost  fiercely. 

"Yes,  yes,  quite  enough!"  I  answered,  rising 
quickly  from  the  ground.  "  Say  nothing  more. 
I  see  it  all.  Oh,  dear  grandfather,  how  very 
horrible !" 

"Ay,  girl,"  the  old  man  continued,  in  spite 
of  my  entreaty,  '  •  my  brother  Marmaduke — my  . 
own  brother,  of  the  same  father  and  mother  as  / 
myself,  stole  her  from  me.  The  brother  to  whom 
I  had  trusted  every  thing,  the  brother  who  never 
beheld  her  till  he  had  learned  how  I  loved  her, 
the  brother  wdio  if  I  had  not  so  confided  in  him 
could  never  have  even  approached  her  presence 
— stole  her  from  me,  and  then  laughed  at  me.  He 
took  her  name,  just  as  he  took  every  thing  I  ever 
valued  in  life.  He  joined  Lymm  Hall  to  her  fine 
estate,  and  made  it  a  farm.  Forty  years  ago  his 
name  was  on  every  body's  lips.  Brave  as  a  lion 
on  the  field  of  battle,  he  won  honors  in  the  tirte 
of  war  only  to  disgrace  them  in  time  of  peace. 
The  gambling-table  and  every  conceivable  ex- 
travagance brought  Lymm  Hall  and  all  his  wife's 
possessions  into  the  hands  of  money-lenders.  He  \ 
broke  Gertrude's  heart.  His  sons  and  daugh 
ters  are  outcasts.  He  died  himself  twenty  years 
since,  in  senile  decay,  though  he  was  scarce  past 
the  middle  time  of  life.  And  as  soon  as  his 
wretched,  beggarecl  grandchildren  come  of  age, 
tuat  fine  house  up  there  and  all  in  it,  Lymm 
Hall  and  every  inch  of  land  he  c^■er  called  his 
own,  will,  by  a  decree  of  the  Court  of  Chancery, 
come  to  the  auctioneer's  hammer,  and  be  knock- 
ed down  to  the  highest  bidder.  Such  was  my 
only  brotlier." 

"Grandfather,"  I  said,  "twenty  years  is  a 
long  time,  and  it  is  all  that  long  time  since  he 
went  to  his  account.  Surely  you  have  forgiven 
him." 

In  a  minute  he  was  calm  and  quiet  as  a  placid 
child,  and  with  pathetic  solemnity  asked,  "Tib- 
by, have-yon  ever  known  me  tell  an  untruth?" 

"Never,  grandfather,"  I  answered,  mdignant- 

"Do  you  think  I  could  be  guilty  of  false- 
hood?" 

"No.'' 

' '  Then  hear  me,  Tibby.  Long  ere  my  brother 
died  I  foi-gave  him  as  completely  as  I  hope  to  be 


42 


OLIVE  IJLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


forgiven.  For  years  I  chcrishcil  a  resolve  never 
to  mention  these  things  to  you,  or  any  other  liv- 
ing person,  Imt  yon  see  I  have  clianged  my  mind, 
not,  however,  ont  of  resentment  to  him,  or  out 
"of  any  disresjject  to  liis  memory." 

As  we  walked  over  the  park  once  more  on  our 
way  back  to  the  Blue  Boar  I  was  well  pleased 
that  my  grandfatlier  had  declined  Mr.  Gurley's 
invitation.  I  had  so  mucli  to  tliink  about,  that 
the  society  of  even  more  agreeable  ])ersons  than 
the  young  man  "who  played  such  an  insuft'er- 
able  game  of  whist"  would  have  been  irksome 
to  me. 

Important  as  the  disclosures,  and  exciting  as 
the  occupation  of  the  day  had  been,  they  had 
consumed  comparatively  little  time.  It  was  not 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  my  grand- 
father and  I,  having  partaken  of  refreshment  at 
the  Blue  Boar,  started  on  our  homeward  journey 
over  the  red  leaves,  and  through  the  dusk)'  lanes. 
He  had  altogether  mastered  his  agitation ;  and 
as  he  drove  the  little  horse,  he  told  me  in  his 
customary  placid  manner  some  more  particulars 
relating  to  Laughton  Abbey,  and  my  relations 
whom  I  had  never  seen — never  before  even  heard 
of.  Sir  Marmaduke  Clare,  he  informed  me, 
;  had  left  three  children — aJl  living  abroad  in  that 
I  poverty  which  not  seldom  covers  the  fallen  mem- 
bers of  our  proud  aristocracy.  Of  these  three 
children,  two — a  son  and  a  daughter — had  nu- 
merous children,  the  youngest  of  whom  would 
come  of  age  in  two  or  three  years,  \vhen  the 
Laughton  property  would  be  sold.  No  member 
of  the  Clare  family  would  ever  return  to  the 
county.  To  my  question  whether  he  ever  had 
any  intercourse  with  any  of  the  younger  genera- 
tion, he  said  he  never  saw  his  brother  or  Ger- 
trude after  their  marriage,  and  had  never  held 
communication  of  any  kind  with  any  of  their 
descendants.  Possibly,  he  suggested,  they  had 
never  heard  of  me,  any  m.ore  than  till  that  day 
I  Ijad  heard  of  them.  He  added  also,  that  ever 
since  Sir  Marmaduke  Clare's  death,  Mr.  Gurley 
had  acted  as  steward  to  the  Laughton  estates, 
having  manifested  in  that  capacity  the  same  in- 
telligence tliat  he  displayed  in  every  thing  he 
took  in  hand,  and  having  saved  and  collected 
much  money  for  the  creditors  of  the  estate  which 
would  otherwise  have  been  lost. 

Among  other  jilans  adopted  by  Mr.  Gurley  to 
increase  the  income  of  the  estate,  was  that  of 
keeping  the  "  house"  in  the  same  state  of  perfect 
repair  and  elaborate  adornment  as  it  was  char- 
acterized by  when  the  Clares  were  in  the  zenitli 
of  their  prosperity,  and  letting  it  to  tenants  of 
the  highest  condition.  The  attractions  of  the 
place,  its  vicinity  to  the  town  of  Laughton,  whose 
member  of  Parliament  was  in  most  cases  little 
else  than  the  nominee  of  the  Abbey  estate,  and 
the  alntndant  materials  oft'ered  by  the  estate  for 
shooting  and  other  sport,  nuide  the  wealthiest 
and  most  distinguished  personages  of  the  land, 
front  time  to  time,  occujjants  of  the  Abbey. 
Just  then  the  house  was  witliout  a  tenant-  l)ut 
Mr.  Gurley  was  already  m  conununication  wiih 
Mr.  Artluir  Byfield  Petersliam,  of  tlic  famous 
banking-house  known  as  *'  Petersliam  and  Blake, 
of  Lombard  Street.'  which  gentleman  thought 
of  hiring  the  Abbey  for  a  shooting-box  during 
the  antiinui  and  wmter  months. 

"Let  us  liave  tea,  Tibliy,"  said  my  grand- 
father, as  the  little  horse  lugged  us  slowly  up  the 


Farnham  Cobb  hill ;  and  lowering  his  voice,  he 
added  impressively,  "and  mind,  my  dear,  tell 
no  one  any  thing  of  to-day's  adventures  and  reve- 
lations until  I  am  in  my  grave.  Beyond  that  I 
don't  wish  to  bind  you." 

That  evening  1  felt  myself  drawn  to  Ettv  with' 
an  unusual  tenderness.  As  it  was  chill,  we  sat 
in  the  tea-room,  with  a  bright  brisk  fire  crack- 
ling and  bubbling  u]i  the  chimney ;  while  Etty, 
occujjying  a  seat  before  her  writing-desk,  was 
busy  for  more  than  an  hour  with  her  pen.  I 
watched  her,  and  as  I  saw  her  cheejc  by  turns 
glow  with  her  thoughts,  and  become  tranquil  as 
she  deliberately  set  them  ont  on  her  jjajier,  I 
knew  that  she  was  preparing  her  second  monthly 
dispatch  for  Julian  Gower ;  and  looking  on  her 
serene  face,  I  was  from  the  very  bottom  ^1'  my 
heart  glad  that  she  had  deprived  me  oi"  my  cor- 
respondent. 

I  was  her  lady's-maid  that  night,  dressing  her 
sunny  hair  for  the  pillow,  and  tucking  her  in  as 
I  had  done  years  before  when  she  was  only  a 
little  child.  And  as  she  slowly  dozed  c«ft'  to  a 
calm  slumber,  I  remained  by  her  bedside  and 
pretended  to  be  reading  one  of  Miss  Edgeworth's 
novels,  but  was  all  the  time  stealing  glances  at 
her  from  over  the  pages  ot  the  book. 

How  light  a  trial  was  mine  compared  with 
that  which  had  embittered  my  dear  grand- 
father's days !  My  sister  had  won  my  hero's 
love,  bvt  she  had  not  stolen  it !  I  had  confided  in 
her,  but  she  had  not  betrayed  me!  "Dearest, 
dearest  Etty !"  I  repeated  to  myself  many  times, 
"  how  I  love  you !  how  I  love  you  !" 

How  merciful  it  is  that  God  does  not  permit 
his  feeble  creatures  to  foresee  ail  the  sorrow  the 
future  is  to  bring  them !  ' 


CHAPTER  V. 


A    SEPAKATION. 


I  WAS  never  again  to  drive  over  the  red  leaves 
to  Laughton  with  my  grandfather.  The  autumn 
was  followed  by  a  long,  cold  winter — of  snow 
deejier  than  the  memory  of  man  could  recall  as 
having  ever  before  covered  the  "corn  country'" 
— and  of  sharp  frost  that  nipped  the  young,  and 
bit  the  aged  to  the  vcr^'  marrow  of  the  bones. 
And  when  the  snows  had  slowly  dissolved,  a 
cheerless  spring  sent  a  raw  east-wind  moaning 
over  the  wet  country.  To  me  and  Ett}'  it  was  a 
spring  of  disaster,  a  spring  that  gave  a  gloom  to 
all  the  bright  suns  of  futm-e  Aprils. 

My  dear  grandfather  bore  \\\i  bravely  through 
the  shar]i  cold  of  January  and  February ;  but 
with  the  setting  in  of  the  March  thaw  his  en- 
durance failed,  and  he  was  attacked  with  that 
slow,  depressing  malady,  which  in  the  old  time 
was  called  throughout  the  corn  country  "a  bad 
cold,"  but  is  nowadays  termed  influenza,  and 
bronchitis,  and  half  a  dozen  other  inex])ressive 
names.  I  had  never  known  him  ill  before.  The 
nrilical  practitioner  who  doctored  the  i)oor  of 
tile  ])arisli  hardly  ever  had  occasion  to  enter  our 
doors,  from  which  mental  quiet,  dn.e  exercise, 
and  healthy  ways  of  life,  united  to  the  powers  of 
sound  constitutions,  warded  oft'  disease.  Now 
and  then  one  of  our  servants  ailed  a  little,  and 
then  the  doctor's  art  was  had  recourse  to  S])aring- 
ly ;  but  since  Etty  recovered  from  scarlatina  in 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


i-i 


her  eighth  year,  neither  slie,  nor  I,  nor  Mrs. 
Siiettle,  nor  my  grandfather,  had  ever  talien  u 
dose  of  medicine  bjyond  tlie  compounds  of  tliat 
traditionary  pharmacoixxia,  which,  under  tlic 
head  of  house-physic,  maintained  its  ground  in 
the  store-rooms  of  the  cora  country  even  down 
to  the  present  generation. 

"A  cold"  was  to  us  then  "only  a  cold  ;"  and 
it  was  not  till  I  found  my  dear  grandfather  suf- 
fering acutely  under  the  rapid  progress  of  in- 
ternal inflammation  that  I  became  alarmed,  or 
thought  of  urging  liim  to  take  medical  advice. 
And  when  I  timidly  proffered  this  prudent  coun- 
sel, he  rejected  it  with  the  irritation  of  a  sick  man. 
No,  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  physic. 
He  would  soon  throw  oft'  the  cold ;  but,  alas !  it 
was  he  who  was  thrown  oft',  and  not  the  cold. 

He  went  out  for  a  walk  in  the  chill,  raw  air, 
bent  on  "  walking  oft"  his  malady,"  and  when  he 
returned  in  half  i\n  horn-  liis  prostration  was  so 
cruel  to  witness,  tliat  T,  on  my  own  resjionsibili- 
ty,  dispatched  Isaac  Stoddart  over  to  Laughton 
with  a  note  to  Mr.  Gurlej',  asking  him  what  was 
to  bo  done.  I  knuw  very  little  of  Mr.  Gurlcy, 
save  that  he  was  a  gentleman  much  respected  by 
my  grandfather  for  his  kindness  of  heart  and 
sound  common  sense.  But  I  literally  had  no 
other  friend  to  apply  to  in  my  difficulty. 

I  acted  as  I  thought  best,  and  fortunately  I 
did  no  harm. 

The  rain  was  descending  in  torrents,  and  the 
wind  was  howling  round  the  College  gables  with 
such  fury,  that  sitting  by  my  grandfather's  bed- 
side I  could  not  hear  the  clock  in  the  hall  strike 
eight  when  Mr.  Gurley  drove  up  to  the  gate. 
He  had  come  promptly  through  the  storm  and 
darkness,  bringing  with  him  in  his  gig  the  first 
medical  practitioner  of  Laughton. 

But  ere  this  arrival  I  had  led  my  dear  grand- 
fiither  to  bed,  and  given  him  a  cup  of  warm 
drink  which  seemed  to  revive  him.  For  half  an 
hour  he  lay  in  a  state  of  composure,  and  then  he 
spoke  to  me,  saying  distinctly,  and  without  effort, 
all  the  words  that  passed  his  lijjs. 

"Tibby,  we  are  alone?" 

"Yes,  dear  grandfather,  quite  alone." 

*'  Whatever  hai7[)ens  to  you  in  life — whatever 
clouds  may  rise  over  you,  whatever  temptations 
you  may  have  to  resist — let  nothing  separate  you 
from  Etty.  Cling  to  her ;  make  her  cling  to 
you." 

"  Surely  I  will,  dear  grandfather.  You  can 
not  fear  I  shall  f;til  to  do  so  ?" 

"Darling,  I  know  your  goodness,  and  could 
trust  any  thing  to  it.  But  still  I  say  cling  to 
her.  Make  every  allowance  for  her.  Never 
quarrel  with  her  whatever  she  may  do.  I  think 
of  your  happiness  more  than  hers  when  I  say 
this.  To  quarrel  with  one's  own  blood  is  to  cut 
through  one's  own  heart.     I  know  it." 

He  said  no  more,  and  I  did  not  break  his 
silence,  for  I  was  pondering  what  could  have  in- 
duced him  to  speak  in  so  unwonted  a  manner 
just  then. 

Mrs.  Skettle  tapped  at  the  door  in  another 
minute,  and  whispered  to  me  that  Mr.  Gurley 
had  arrived. 

"What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  my  grandfather. 

'■^Ir.  Gurley  is  here,  grandfather,  and  he 
would  like  to  see  you,"  I  answered,  timidly. 

For  an  instant  an  expression  of  annoyance 
crossed  his  face,  but  my  air  of  embarrassment 


and  pain  made  him  look  at  the  interrujjti.ai  dif- 
ferently, and  he  answered  cordially,  "I  siiall 
very  much  like  to  see  him." 

Directly  Mrs.  Skettle  had  dejjarted  to  conduct 
Mr.  Gurley  uj)  stah-s  my  grandfather  took  my 
hand,  and,  with  a  reassuring  smile,  said,  "You 
sent  for  Gurley.  Thank  yiMi,  Tibby.  You  did 
quite  right.  In  all  your  life  you  iiave  been  a 
great  comfort  to  me." 

I  left  Mr.  Gurley  alone  with  my  grandfather 
till  the  ringing  of  his  bell  summoned  me. 

"My  dear,"  said  my  grandfather,  with  in- 
creased  difliculty,  when  I  answered  the  sum- 
mons, "^Ir.  Gurley  tells  me  that  his  friend  Mr. 
Choate  is  in  the  tea-room.  Ask  him  if  he  will 
have  the  goodness  to  pay  me  a  visit." 

I  had  never  seen  Mr.  Choate,  knowing  of  him 
only  as  the  first  surgeon  of  Laughton,  and  as 
"the  young  man  who  played  such  an  insuffer- 
able game  of  whist."  Though  my  grandfather 
called  him  "young,"  Mr.  Choate  had  seen  at 
least  fifty  j'ears,  and  appeared  to  me  (when  I 
found  him  conversing  in  the  tea-room  with  Mrs. 
Skettle  and  Etty)  a  good-looking,  well-manner- 
ed, burly  gentleman. 

"  Will  you.  Sir,  let  me  conduct  yoii  to  my 
grandf;ither's  room?"  I  said. 

"My  dear  Miss  Tree,"  he  answered,  in  an 
honest,  manly  voice,  that  was  at  the  same  time 
loud  and  gentle,  "I  am  delighted  to  hear  he 
will  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him." 

From  this  reply  I  saw  that  Mr.  Choate  was 
aware  of  my  dear  grandfather's  antagonism  to 
him,  and  that  notwithstanding  the  chances  ia 
favor  of  his  visit  being  unacceptable,  he  had 
come  out  twelve  miles  that  inclement  night  in 
the  lioije  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  do  good. 
I  knew  that  Mr.  Choate  was  neither  in  want  of 
patients  nor  at  all  the  man  to  seek  them  simply 
out  of  considerations  of  self-interest. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Sir!"  exclaimed  my  grandfa- 
ther, raising  himself  m  his  bed  on  Mr.  Choate's 
entry,  and  greeting  him  with  the  cordial  suavity 
of  departed  manners,  "I  am  delighted  to  see 
you  in  my  house.  I  thank  you  for  coming,  for 
I  want  to  assure  you'"  (and  as  he  spoke  a  twinkle 
of  amusement  and  conciliatory  animation  played 
in  my  dear  grandfather's  eye)  "that  after  all  I 
am  of  opinion  that  your  game  was  the  right  one. 
Under  the  circumstances  your  trump  was  the 
card  to  play." 

"Ah,  Sir!"  returned  Mr.  Choate,  with  nice 
tact,  "my  game  was  the  right  one,  but  I  ])layed 
it  in  the  wrong  way.  And  I  am  greatly  indebt- 
ed to  you  for  frankly  telling  me  so  years  since." 

A  tear  rolled  down  each  of  my  grandfather's 
cheeks,  and  his  lips  twitched ;  and  then,  holding 
forth  both  his  hands  to  his  kind-hearted  guest, 
he  exclaimed,  "What  little  trumpery  things 
keep  good  fellows  apart  in  this  strange  world! 
But  it  is  too  late  now ;  I  shall  never  play  anoth- 
er rubber  with  you.'' 

At  these  words  I  slipped  out  of  the  room  to 
pace  up  and  down  the  oak-gallery  with  a  heart 
beating  fast  from  terror ;  for  the  tone  in  which 
my  dear  grandfather  had  uttered  these  last  sim- 
ple words  informed  me  that  he  knew  and  sym- 
pathized with  my  worst  apprehensions. 

And  *,he  terrible  blow  fell  so  suddenly! 

Ere  another  morning  dawned  his  life  was  no 
longer  ours. 

A  week  passed,  and  I  and  Etty  stood  side  by 


44 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


side  in  Lymm  cluircli,  and  saw  the  coffin  of  our 
dear  grandfather  lowered  to  a  place  beside  his 
father's. 

Dear,  dear  grandfather !  my  first  true  friend  ! 
simple,  stainless,  guileless  gentleman !  how,  as 
the  i)en  falters  in  my  hand,  do  all  the  minutest 
circumstances  of  that  awful  night  and  solemn 
day  stand  out  upon  my  memory  clear  and  shar]) ! 
How  do  your  words  come  from  the  silence  of 
thrice  ten  years — "Whatever  happens  to  you  in 
life — whatever  clouds  may  rise  over  you,  what- 
ever temptations  you  may  have  to  resist,  let  no- 
thing separate  you  from  Etty.  Cling  to  her; 
make  her  cling  to  you."  -^ 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WHAT    NEXT? 

My  grandfather  left  a  will — a  very  simple  one. 
All  his  debts  were  to  be  paid,  and  the  residue  of 
his  jiroperty,  whatever  it  might  be,  was  to  be 
paid  over  to  me.  This  brief  will,  of  which  Mr. 
Gurley  was  sole  executor,  was  made  during  the 
last  year  of  the  testator's  life.  At  first,  it  sur- 
prised and  even  pained  me ;  but  Mr.  Gurley 's 
explanations  soon  caused  me  to  regard  it  with 
different  feelings. 

Up  to  the  time  of  his  death  the  Reverend 
Solomon  Easy  had  maintained  the  appearance 
of  comfortable  circumstances,  if  not  of  wealth. 
As  Gerent  of  the  college  he  had  a  good  residence 
and  a  stipend  of  £100  per  annum.  Ilis  vicarage 
gave  him  £200  per  annum,  and  he  M'as  jjrojirie- 
tor  of  Sandhill — a  farm  comprising  a  hundred 
and  eighty  acres  of  productive  mixed  soil  land, 
and  taking  its  name  of  Sandhill,  not  from  the 
poverty  of  its  texture,  but  simply  because  it  was 
lighter  than  "the  heavy  lands"  around  it.  A 
clergyman  with  such  ostensible  resources  and  no 
expensive  tastes  manifest  to  general  observation, 
would  even  now,  in  "  the  corn  country,"  be  look- 
ed at  as  "  a  warm  man."  A  person  who  "owns 
land"  is,  in  a  rural  district,  always  reputed  to 
be  richer  than  a  neighbor  who  has  thrice  his 
wealth  invested  in  the  funds,  and  such  other  less 
palpable  forms  of  stock. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  me  to  speculate  as  to 
the  amount  and  nature  of  my  grandfather's  pos- 
sessions. Beyond  a  vague  but  most  comfortable 
sense  of  security  from  the  hardships  of  very  strait- 
ened circumstances,  which  security,  I  presumed, 
I  and  Etty  would  enjoy  during  the  course  of  our 
lives,  I  had  not  had  a  thought  about  money 
matters.  When  I  heard  my  grandfather's  curt 
will  read,  I  at  first  su])posed  m3'self  the  possessor 
of  some  consideral)le  wealth,  and  was  ])aincd  that 
my  dear  grandfather  had  seen  fit  to  leave  all  of 
it  to  me,  and  none  of  it  to  Etty.  The  course  of 
a  few  days,  however,  showed  me  that  I  was  in 
error,  and  enlightened  me  that,  far  from  being 
well  ])rovided  for,  1  and  my  sister  were  onl}' just 
removed  from  being  very,  very  poor. 

Mr.  Gurley  calculated  that  the  sale  of  all  my 
grandfather's  effects,  and  the  ]>ayment  of  his 
debts,  would  reduce  his  estate  to  £250  or  £300. 
If  the  i)ro]icrty  sold  well,  there  might  be  a  sur- 
plus of  £500  ,  hut  I  must  not  be  too  sanguine  in 
my  expectations  of  such  a  result. 

My  fiice  showed  Mr.  Gurley  my  surprise  at 
this  announcement. 


"I  do  not  wonder  at  your  astonishment,"  lie 
said.  "  But  poor  Mr.  Easy  fell  into  cmbarr:i'->(  il 
circumstances  through  bis  own  good-nature  and 
mistaken  sense  of  honor.  In  business  affairs  ^^i  m  h1- 
nature  and  fine  honor  should  never  be  all()\\i d 
full  i)lay,  Miss  Tree'.  Now  there  was  no  cartlily 
reason  why  Mr.  Easy  should  have  refused  that 
annuity  he  might  at  one  i)eriod  of  his  life  have 
secured  on  the  Laughton  Abbey  estate.  Theie 
was  no  earthly  reason  why  Mr.  Easy  should  ha-\-e 
gone  on  advancing  large  sums  of  money  to  his 
son-in-law — your  lamented  father,  Miss  Tree — 
when  his  reckless  and  incurable  extravagance 
had  been  proved  beyond  a  doubt.  There  was 
still  less  to  say  in  defense  of  his  absurd  (excuse 
the  strength  of  the  word)  conduct  in  paying  off  ' 
Captain  Tree's  debts,  on  the  demise  of  that  gal-  ' 
lant  gentleman,  under  the  imjiression  that  if  they  ' 
remained  unpaid  the}^  would  be  a  stigma  of  shame  ■ 
on  you  and  Miss  Etty,  then  a  babe  at  her  nurse's 
breast.  It  is  such  a  pity.  Miss  Ti'ee,  that  nun 
of  honor  won't  confine  their  sentiments  to  ques- 
tions of  honor,  but  icill  mix  them  up  Avitli  affairs 
of  business.  Half  the  misery  of  this  world,  ]\Iiss 
Tree,  is  caused  by  gentlemen  troubling  them- 
selves about  the  course  most  fit  for  gentlemen  to 
take,  when  they  ought  onl}^  to  be  looking  out 
sharp  for  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence." 

"  I  honor  my  grandfather  for  his  conduct,  Sir. 
Gurley,"  I  said.  "Don't  speak  slightingly  of 
him,  Sir.  He  was  your  friend,  and  'never  spoke 
so  of  you." 

"Slightingly!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Gurley  with 
natural  warmth.  "Heaven  forbid  I  should  s])eak 
slightingly  of  him !  He  was  the  finest-sjjirited 
man  that  ever  lived !  I  was  not  speaking  slighting- 
ly of  /n?n,  but  only  of  his  way  of  doing  business." 

Mr.  Gurley  was  a  hard  man,  but  fixr  from  be- 
ing devoid  of  kindness.  I  never  felt  his  hard- 
ness, and  angularity,  and  self-comi)lacent  abrupt- 
ness more  than  I  did  when  he  talked  with  me 
freely  about  my  dear  gi'andfather's  aft'airs,  and 
in  his  character  of  "  business  man"  laid  his 
square  hands  plump  on  all  the  tender  and  most 
sensitive  points  of  my  affections.  And  yet, 
though  he  Avas  continually  making  me  wince,  he 
obtained  a  strong  hold  over  my  confidence,  and 
I  felt  that  he  woidd  act  to  me  as  a  wise  adviser, 
and  as  a  true  friend. 

He  came  over  frequently  to  Farnham  Cobb 
during  the  month  following  my  grandfather's 
death,  visiting  Sandhill  and  making  arrange- 
ments for  the  sale  of  that  place  and  all  the  stock 
upon  it.  He  moreover  brought  over  Mr.  Choatc 
with  him  to  prescribe  for  Etty,  who  was  pale  and 
dejected,  and  to  look  at  Mrs.  Skettle,  who  had 
become  alarmingly  indisposed. 

Now  that  sickness  and  death  had  entered  our 
once  hap]iy  home,  it  seemed  that  those  dread 
powers  were  determined  to  maintain  their  abode 
there.  In  ten  days  after  her  first  attack  JNIrs. 
Skettle  followed  ]wv  old  friend  and  master  to  the 
silent  land.  I  and  Etty  felt  only  slightly  the  loss 
and  the  awe  of  the  quiet  old  lady's  death.  It 
was  another  dark  stroke  in  our  life-picture;  but 
it  was  made  at  a  time  when  it  could  not  add  to 
the  gloom  of  desolation  around  us. 

Another  month  passed.  INIrs.  Skettle  had  been 
buried  ten  days,  and  my  dear  grandfather  we 
had  not  seen  for  nearly  seven  weeks. 

"Well,  my  dear  IVIiss  Tree,  what  will  j'ou 
do  ?"  asked  Air.  Gurley. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


45 


What  would  I  do?  He  was  quite  riglit  for 
putting  the  question.  He  was  kind  in  troubling 
himself  about  my  futui-e  steps,  and  yet  I  winced 
under  the  inquiry.  It  was  really  kind,  but  it 
seemed  cruel. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  continued  Mr.  Gurlcy, 
"yon  must  look  the  world  in  the  face.  You  see, 
when  a  woman  dies,  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  put 
her  chair  in  the  corner ;  but  when  a  man  dies, 
as  a  general  rule,  a  woman  has  to  be  turned  out 
of  doors.  The  time  is  already  growing  short  for 
you  to  remaiji  here.  Mr.  Easy's  successor,  as 
Gerent  and  Vicar,  has  already  written  to  me 
twice,  inquiring  when  he  can  take  possession  of 
the  house.  He  is  going  to  marry,  and  he  wants 
to  be  at  work,  papering  and  painting  and  restor- 
ing the  College,  so  that  it  may  be  in  fit  order  to 
receive  his  bride.  That's  the  way  the  world  goes. 
See-saw — one  up,  another  down.  A  scramble — 
one  gets,  another  loses.  A  game  of  '  Catch-a- 
corner' — one  in,  another  out.  But  I  told  the 
gentleman,  my  dear  Miss  Tree,  that  he  shouldn't 
annoy  you — as  long  as  you  had  a  legal  right  to 
remain  in  this  house — no,  not  if  he  were  the 
Sultan  of  Turkej',  and  wished  to  bring  all  his 
harem  to  Farnhara  Cobb." 

It  was  not  the  season  of  the  j'ear  for  agricul- 
tural auctions ;  but  land  can  be  sold  at  any  time, 
and  Mr.  Gurley  had  found  a  tenant  for  Sandhill, 
who  was  ready  to  take  all  the  live  and  dead  stock 
upon  it  at  a  liberal  valuation.  The  task  of  dis- 
posing of  my  grandfather's  estate  had  thus  been 
rendered  comparatively  simple  and  easy,  and  had 
already  been  accomplished  on  fair  terms.  The 
result  was,  that  after  paying  off  a  heavy  mortgage 
on  Sandhill,  after  liquidating  various  small  debts, 
after  paying  an  unexpectedly  large  sum  for  "  di- 
lapidations" to  my  grandfather's  successor,  and 
after  refunding  to  Mr.  Gurley  money  which  he 
had  in  the  course  of  years  advanced  to  my  grand- 
father on  personal  security,  my  grandfather's 
executor  had  a  sum  of  £321  8s.  5^(1.  to  pay  over 
to  me. 

What  would  I  do  ? 

"I  need  not  point  out  to  yon.  Miss  Tree,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Gurley,  "that  the  interest  of  such  a 
sura  of  money  as  that  can  not  be  made  to  sup- 
port you  and  your  sister." 

"Of  course  not.  I  must  work.  But  what 
can  I  do  ?" 

"Spoken  sensibly,  Miss  Tree.  You  must  work. 
Your  sister  one  day  will  marry.  Beautiful  creat- 
ure she  is !  But  in  the  mean  time  she  must 
work  too.  Julian  Gower  won't  be  able  to  marry 
her  while  he  is  in  South  America ;  and  it  is  not 
unlikely  that  he'll  have  to  wait  several  years 
after  his  five  years  there  are  finislied  ere  he  can 
su])iJort  a  wife  and  family.  She  must  work  too. 
Now  of  course  }-ou'd  like  to  live  togetlier.  It 
follows,  therefore,  that  you  must  tiy  to  find  ^^•ork 
that  you  can  do  together." 

I  cordially  assented  to  this  statement  of  the 
case,  and  thanked  him  for  patting  it  so  plain- 
ly- 

*'  But  what  are  we  to  do  ?  What  can  we  do  ?" 
I  asked. 

"  Miss  Tree,  I  hope  you  won't  think  me  a 
busy-body,"  replied  Mr.  Gurley,  with  a  needless 
and  unusual  attempt  at  an  apology.  "I  have 
been  trying  to  answer  those  questions  for  you. 
Indeed  Choate  and  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of 
talking  it  over.     Rufus  Choate  is  a  sensible  and 


kind  fellow,  and  an  excellent  man  of  business, 
though  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  was,  years  back, 
tlie  most  insuflerable  whist-player  that  ever  took 
thirteen  cards  in  liand.  ^le  used  to  play  as  if 
the  chief  object  of  the  game  was  to  show  the 
three  men  he  jilaycd  with  that  he  thought  them 
^ools.  But  he  doesn't  do  so  now.  He  is  a  capi- 
tal fellow.  Now  Rufus  Choate  has  two  little 
girls.  I  have  three  little  girls.  Choate  sug- 
gested to  me  that  if  you  and  your  sister  found  it 
necessaiy  to  go  out  as  governesses,  one  of  you 
might  like  to  be  governess  in  his  family,  and  the 
other  might  take  the  same  post  in  mine.  You 
and  your  sister  would  thus  see  almost  as  much 
of  each  other  as  you  do  now  ;  for  Choate  and  I 
are  very  intimate — almost  like  brothers,  and  our 
children  really  hardly  know  wliich  of  our  two 
houses  is  their  own.  That  was  Choate's  sugges- 
tion." 

' '  It  was  veiy,  very  kind  of  him, "  I  said,  warm- 
ly. "  I'll  write  and  thank  him  this  very  day  for 
his  proposal,  whether  I  act  on  it  or  not." 

"Well,  now  for  my  part  in  meddling  with 
other  people's  aftairs,"  continued  Mr.  Gurley. 
"I  thought  over  Choate's  plan.  Then  I  said  to 
him,  'No,  if  we  make  any  proposal,  let  it  be  a 
modification  of  yours.  Why  shouldn't  Miss  Tree 
and  Miss  Etty  take  The  Coltar/e  and  keep  a 
school  of  their  own  ?'  Choate  liked  the  thought 
prodigiously.  You  remember  the  cottage.  Miss 
Tree,  the  little  place  in  the  corner  of  the  park, 
with  the  cedar-tree,  and  trellis-work,  and  gables, 
and  fish-pond,  that  you  admired  so  much  last 
autumn  ?  If  yon  came  there  and  opened  a  school 
you'd  find  pupils  immediately.  Choate  and  I 
are  rather  important  personages  in  our  little 
town ;  and  our  little  girls,  who  would  join  your 
school  instantly,  would  soon  attract  others.  You 
might  have  six  boarders  and  a  whole  regiment 
of  day-pupils.  By  this  plan  you'd  be  mistresses 
of  your  own  house ;  indeed,  in  a  sort  of  way, 
you'd  be  living  on  family  property.  If  you  came 
to  live  in  my  house  I  shouldn't  annoy  you,  be- 
cause I  am  always  in  my  ofiice  or  driving  about 
the  country  after  business — and  my  wife  would 
be  very  kind  to  you,  because  slie  couldn't  help 
herself;  but  still  you'd  somehow  feel  yourself  a 
stranger  with  us.  A  woman  likes  to  be  head  of 
a  house.  She  likes  a  little  power.  If  there's 
any  good  in  her,  she  enjoys  deciding  whetlier  the 
servants  may  go  out  to  tea,  and  every  now  and 
then  having  all  the  window -blinds  washed  when 
they  don't  want  it." 

"Mr.  Gurley,"  I  said,  rising  with  an  effort, 
and  trying  to  be  calm,  though  I  felt  hot  tears  on 
my  cheeks,  "God  has  indeed  raised  up  friends 
for  the  orphans." 

"Pooh,  my  dear,"  returned  Mr.  Gurley,  flur- 
ried for  the  minute  out  of  his  customary  sharp 
manner,  "don't  talk  so.  You  women  always 
will  take  such  romantic  views  of  mei'e  matters 
of  business.  Well,  well,  we  are  friends.  That's 
all  right.  Let's  always  keep  so.  Don't  you  re- 
member dear  Mr.  Easy's  words,  'What  little 
trumpery  things  keep  good  fellows  apart  in  this 
strange  world !'  I  shall  never  forget  them.  No, 
as  long  as  I  live  I  shall  never  forget  them.  They 
were  an  entire  life  of  sermons." 

And  all  of  a  sudden  Mr.  Gurley  remembered 
that  he  hadn't  seen  his  horse  rubbed  down.  He'd 
just  go  to  the  stable  and  see  if  Isaac  Stoddart 
had  rubbed  him  down.     And  in  another  mo- 


46 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


mciit  he  had  run  out  of  tlic  room,  leaving  me 
to  ery  out  my  gratitude  by  myself,  like  the  weak, 
blubbering  little  fool  I  was. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

OLD    SCHOOLS    AND   NEW. 

Mr.  Gurley's  proposal  was  not  only  so  kind, 
but  was  in  every  respect  so  exeellent,  that  Etty 
and  I  did  not  hesitate  to  act  on  it  promptly. 
To  my  suggestion  that  she  would  prefer  we  should 
wait  till  the  mail  should  bring  us  Julian's  opin- 
ion ere  we  took  any  steps  definitively  commit- 
ting us  to  establish  a  school  at  Laughton,  she 
replied  that,  as  he  would  certainly  approve  our 
undertaking,  and  cordially  congratulate  us  on 
having  such  a  field  of  profitable  exertion  offered 
to  us,  we  had  better  waste  no  time,  and  had  bet- 
ter write  him  a  full  account  of  what  we  meant  to 
do,  not  what  we  icished  to  do.  My  judgment 
accorded  with  her  decision,  but  still  I  felt  it  right 
more  than  once  again  to  suggest  that  we  should 
refer  our  intended  movements  to  Julian  before 
making  them  irrevocably.  But  she  would  not 
admit  of  such  a  line  ot  action. 

"It  would  be  making  the  dear  fellow  of  too 
much  importance!"  she  said,  in  her  old  playful 
way,  when  we  had  for  the  last  time  reconsidei'ed 
the  question.  "Bless  me!  he  has  no  right  yet 
to  dictate  to  me  what  I  am  to  do,  and  what  I 
am  to  leave  undone.  Moreover,  though  he  will, 
if  he  continue  to  behave  himself  properly,  be  my 
master  one  of  these  days,  he  is  not  and  never 
will  be  yours." 

Poor  girl,  she  little  dreamed  how  completely 
he  was  <  my  master !  how  many  years  he  had 
been  so ! 

I  did  not  chide  her  for  her  levity ;  for  I  was 
glad  once  again  to  see  the  old  merry  light  in  her 
eyes  and  on  her  lips.  And  I  had  already  grown 
accustomed  to  hear  her  speak  of  Julian  with  a 
playfulness  that  seemed  to  me  almost  irreverent. 
I  knew  that  in  her  heart  she  cherished  a  high 
ideal  of  a  wife's  character  and  duties,  and  that 
with  solemn  earnestness  she  was  bent  on  being 
all  that  she  understood  by  the  words  "a  good 
wife."  But  still  it  not  seldom  jarred  against 
my  feelings  to  listen  to  the  ligiit  vein  in  which 
sUe  would  prattle  about  "her  naughty  boy," 
"her  handsome  slave,"  "her  quaint,  blunder- 
ing Julian."  His  deep,  generous  passion,  too, 
seemed  often  more  a  source  of  amusement  than 
a  proper  cause  for  lively  gratitude  to  God  and 
to  him.  I  recalled,  as  so  many  visions  of  pure 
and  holy  delight,  the  occasions  when  he  had 
been  stirred  by  my  words,  or  had  been  mani- 
festly satisfied  with  my  conduct ;  but  she,  pleased 
as  she  was  with  them,  could  all  but  jest  at  his 
more  extravagant  expressions  of  admiration.  It 
may  not  be  supposed  that  she  Iietrayed  any  un- 
seemly personal  vanity,  or  ever  boasted  with  un- 
feminine  triumjih  of  her  infiuence  over  him. 
Of  such  conduct  she  was  incapable.  But  in 
various  ways — too  trilling  and  too  subtle  for  me 
to  be  able  to  describe  them  in  words — she  uncon- 
sciously betrayed  that  she  regarded  his  love  as 
"a  mere  matter  of  course,"  a  tribute  naturally 
her  due — and  that,  in  tlieir  relations,  it  was  she 
who  (javc,  and  he  who  received.  I  tried  not  to 
think  so,  for  the  thought  seemed  something  that 


might  one  day  grow  into  a  severe  and  unchari- 
tal)lc  judgnu-nt  of  my  only  sister;  but  I  could 
not  escape  the  ])ain  of  suspecting  that  slie  ratecl 
the  hap])iness  conferred  by  herself  on  him  more 
highly  than  the  honor  and  joy  conferred  by  him 
on  her.  And  how  natural  it  was  that  such  a 
traitorous  self-complacence  should  creep  into 
her  young  mind,  when  every  mirror  that  she 
passed  flattered  her  more  than  ever  Julian's 
words  could ! 

So  the  important  question  was  decided ;  and 
for  the  next  few  weeks  I  and  Etty  were  busy  in 
making  preparations  for  our  new  vocation.  Such 
of  our  old  furniture  as  was  of  a  kind  to  be  use- 
ful to  us  we  moved  to  "The  Cottage."  ]Many 
things  we  had  to  buy.  "The  instrument"  which 
my  dear  grandfather  held  in  such  high  estima- 
tion, though  its  notes  were  all  exi)iring  beyond 
a  chance  of  recovery,  we  took  with  us — partly 
out  of  a  feeling  that  our  "possible  little  pujiils" 
might  use  it  to  learn  their  five  notes  and  scales 
on,  and  partly  out  of  sheer  love  for  the  poor  old 
rattling  sideboard ;  but  we  felt  it  necessary  to 
invest  £40  (an  enormous  sum  we  deemed  it) 
in  a  bran-new  cottage-jjiano,  bought  at  the  near- 
est cathedral  town  through  the  agency  of  Mr. 
Gurley. 

Other  heavy  expenses  we  had  in  furnishingjj 
our  new  residence,  and  getting  a  proper  trade- 
stock,  as  Mr.  Gurley  called  it ;  so  that  when  we 
spent  our  first  evening  at  home  in  "The  Cot- 
tage," and  counted  u])  our  money,  Etty  and  I 
found  that  we  had  in  hand  for  current  expenses 
very  little  more  than  £100. 

But  we  had  before  us  a  reassuring  prospect. 
Through  the  interest  of  Mr.  Gurley  and  Mr. 
Choate  we  started  with  five  boarders  (six  being 
the  number  for  which  we  had  accommodation) 
and  eight  little  girls  as  day-pupils — five  of  themi 
being  the  children  of  the  kind-hearted  doctoti 
and  lawyer.  Our  school,  therefore,  was  a  com- 
mercial success  from  the  day  on  which  it  was 
opened.  All  professional  success  is  pleasant; 
and  ours  was  the  more  so  from  the  fact  that  w.e 
received  convincing  proof  from  the  leading  in- 
habitants of  Laughton  that  the  town  was  in 
want  of  a  good  girls'  school,  and  was  really  glad 
to  receive  us  into  its  population. 

What  a  long  letter  was  Etty's  next  monthly 
budget  to  Julian  !  and  how  much  more  cheerful 
than  its  three  immediate  precursors ! 

And  thus  we  turned  our  backs  on  Farnhamj 
Cobb:  quitting  it  with  many  tears  and  a  vague i 
discomforting  prevision  that  the  next  twenty  j 
years  of  our  lives  would  have  more  sorrow  than 
iiad  marked  the  tranquil  days  we  had  passed  in  f 
the  dear  old  College. 

Farnham  Cobb  is  a  very  different  place  now  \ 
from  what  it  was  in  my  girlhood.     My  grand-; 
father's  successor  was  of  "a  new  school,"  and' 
was  very  much  shocked  with  all  the  arrange- 
ments of  the  College  and  the  parish.     He  imme- 
diately introduced  sweeping  reforms  and  altera- 
tions of  all  sorts.     He  found  out  that  the  College 
was  "a  flagrant   abuse;"  we  had  only  found' 
it  a  very  hapjiy  home.      And  active  measures 
were  taken  to  convert  it  from  its  condition  of 
flagrant  abuse  into  the  highest  possible  state  of 
efficiency.     Tiie  kindling,  and  the  potatoes,  and 
the  gardening  tools  were  taken  out  of  the  in- 
(pu'st-room — once  mure  and  forever.     The  brick 
floor  of  the  inquest-room  was  cleaned  with  a  new 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


47 


scnih-brash,  and  a  prodijiious  quantity  of  fidl- 
ev's-earth.  T lie  desks  and  tonus  were  all  cleansed 
with  another  new  scrub-brush,  and  a  liberal  sup- 
ply of  soft  soap.  The  ceilings  and  walls  were 
covered  ever  so  thick  with  new  whiCe-Avash.  The 
ilusry,  stumpy  old  rod  was  chopjied  up  and 
burned  as  an  abominable  remnant  of  the  barbar- 
ous ages.  The  cobwebs  in  the  windows  were 
so  vigorously  attacked  tliat  more  than  a  score 
panes  were  "shivered  by  the  renovating  broom- 
handle.  The  statutes  were  brought  out  and 
carefully  perused;  and  in  consequence  of  this 
exanunition,  "Declarations"  were  forthwith 
held  four  times  a  year.  But  Mr.  Ardent  (my 
grandfather's  successor)  feeling  it  unnecessary  to 
observe  the  directions  of  the  statutes,  in  respect 
of  costutne,  as  punctiliously  as  my  dear  grand- 
father had  done,  did  not  provide  himself  with 
knee-breeches,  and  black  silk  stockings,  and 
shoes  with  silver  buckles.  The  statutes  said  no- 
thing about  the  feast  of  cakes  and  ale  to  the  vil- 
lagers after  "Declarations;"  so  that  pleasant 
but  rather  troublesome  and  somewhat  costly 
usage  was  discontinued.  It  would  take  a  vol- 
ume to  name  all  the  changes  for  the  better  made 
by  Mr.  Ardent. 

*  I  believe  him  to  have  been  a  gootl  man ;  I 
1  know  he  was  a  very  zealous  one.  But  he  was 
Vrong,  and  guilty  of  cruel  injustice  in  saying 
that  my  dear  grandfather  neglected  his  duty, 
and  was  a  disgrace  to  his  profession.  My  dear 
grandfather  did  no  such  thing,  was  no  such 
thing.  True,  he  was  a  clergyman  of  an  old  and 
'■  obsolete  school.  In  his  youth  he  rode  with  the 
1  hounds,  and  he  followed  ganre,  with  a  gun  in 
I  his  hands  and  a  keeper  at  his  heels,  as  long  as 
[bodily  vigor  enabled  him  to  enjoy  strong  exer- 
cise. He  was  sometimes  to  be  seen  at  the  coun- 
ty races,  and  he  liked  "gentlemanly  whist." 
He  did  not  think  himself  out  of  phace  wrestling 
or  plajing  camp  with  the  farmers,  and  artisans, 
and  workmen  on  the  "four  parishes'  common." 
He  had  to  the  last  only  one  service  each  Sunday 
in  his  church.  But  he  neither  did  harm  nor 
caiised  harm  in  others ;  on  the  contrary  he  daily 
wrought  much  good  :  his  life  was  a  modest  ex- 
ample of  manly  gentleness  and  exquisite  chari- 
ty :  he  did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  be  so  active  in 
doctrinal  instruction  as  his  successor  deemed  it 
right  to  be,  but  with  a  never-flagging  and  unob- 
trusive sympathy  with  the  poor  (which  I  fervent- 
ly hope  is  as  common  now  as  it  was  in  "  the 
good  old  time"),  he  was  the  beloved  personal  as- 
sociate of  every  old  man  and  old  woman,  and 
every  young  man,  and  o^^ery  young  woman,  and 
every  little  child  in  his  parish.  He  did  not  make 
formal  visits  on  his  cottagers.  He  lounged  in 
npon  them,  sometimes  in  his  slippers  and  a 
brown-holland  coat  (when  the  weather  was  hot), 
and  sat  gossiping  with  them,  for  hours  togeth- 
er, about  their  children,  their  spinning,  their 
bees,  their  garden-stuff,  their  bargains,  their 
fi-iendships,  and  their  quarrels;  winning  their 
hearts  because  he  7-eal/i/  enjoyed  their  society, 
and  actunllij  felt  an  interest  in  their  concerns — 
not  mcn-ely  out  of  sense  of  duty  pretending  that 
such  was  the  case. 

Such  a  man  was  my  dear  grandfather;  and 
when  Mr.  Ardent  reflected  on  him  as  a  sluggard 
in  his  Master's  work  he  was  greatly  in  error, 
and  did  injustice  to  a  dead  man,  not  from  want 
of  rectitude  of  intention,  but  from  taking  a  nar- 


row view  of  extinct  manners,  which  should  al- 
ways be  viewed  liberally  or  not  considered  at  all. 

I  should  be  sorry  if  these  last  jjages  led  any 
reader  to  supjfose  that  I  would  depreciate  the 
merits,  or  sjieak,  save  with  the  most  sincere  ven- 
eration, of  the  modern  school  of  clergymen.  Far 
from  it.  They  worthily  represent  the  goodness 
of  this  generation ;  but  so  in  like  manner  did 
their  predecessors  rei>resent  what  was  best  in  the 
old  time.  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  see  many 
changes.  Sometimes  the  changes,  I  admit  it, 
have  given  me  pain ;  but  even  when  they  have 
shocked  my  prejudices  and  treated  harshly  old 
and  tender  associations  I  have  endeavored  to 
hope  ^or  the  best  possible  consequences  from 
them,  to  judge  their  promoters  charitably,  and 
to  place  a  generous  reliance  in  times  and  ways 
to  which  I  feel  I  do  not  exactly  belong.  If  I 
have  a  tendency  to  complain  egotistically  about 
any  thing,  it  is  that  I  do  not  find  a  correspond- 
ing generosity  always  disjjlayed  to  myself.  I  be- 
long to  "the  good  old  time,"  my  affections  hav- 
ing been  enlisted  in  its  defense  in  my  earliest 
childhood.  I  love  "the  good  old  time,"  and  it 
does  acutely  pain  me  to  hear,  every  day  of  my 
life,  careless  people  attribute  all  the  possible  and 
impossible  vices  of  human  society  to  it,  simply 
because  it  hadn't  a  parliamentary  reform  bill, 
had  no  railways,  disliked  Frenchmen  and  polit- 
ical economists,  paid  the  Prince  Eegent's  clebts, 
and  drank  a  great  deal  too  nmch  wine.  I  have 
therefore,  under  much  provocation,  made  bold 
to  advance  a  modest  plea  for  that  "good  old 
time,"  and  to  defend  the  character  of  one  whose 
virtues  taught  me  to  venerate  the  clergy  of  the 
old  school. 

Surely  there  are  some  who  sympathize  with 
me! 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

A   GENTLEWOMAN   OF    ANCIENT   DESCENT. 

Lacghton  was  verj'  different  from  Farnham 
Cobb.  It  had  but  three  thousand  inhabitants ; 
yet  it  was  the  largest  town  Etty  had  ever  seen, 
and  it  appeared  to  her  in  the  light  of  a  metropo- 
lis. The  reader  can  hardly  imagine  how  excit- 
ing its  society  and  events  were  to  me  and  raj 
sister.  Having  lived  all  our  days  iir  a  secluded 
corner  of  a  fat,  tranquil  county — a  corner  that 
could  be  only  approached  by  rutted  lanes — where 
we  had  no  diversity  of  pursuits,  or  amusements, 
or  companions,  we  felt  scarcely  less  in  a  whirl, 
during  our  first  six  weeks  of  residence  in  Laugh- 
ton,  than  the  daughter  of  a  county  house  feels  at 
the  opening  of  her  first  London  season. 

Mrs.  Gurley  was  very  kind  to  us.  She  took 
us  by  the  hand  as  her  especial  prot^rjces,  and 
made  an  evening  party  for  the  express  purpose 
of  introducing  us  to  the  principal  people  of  the 
town.  It  makes  me  smile  to  remember  how  we 
had  recourse  to  Mrs.  Gurley  for  advice  as  to  our 
most  trivial  movements.  She  was,  like  me,  little 
in  stature ;  but  she  was  also  very  fat,  and  had 
small,  laughing  black  eyes  that  expressed  the 
genuine  benevolence  of  her  disposition.  She 
had  in  girlhood  been  well-looking ;  and  that 
universal  good-nature,  which  caused  her  to  see 
only  the  brightest  side  of  the  world  and  of  every 
object  in  it,  preserved  her  from  the  painful  knowl- 
edge that  time  had  changed  the  clear  brnnette 


48 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOEK. 


complexion  of  her  youth  into  a  deep  gamboge 
tan,  and  liad  so  increased  the  girth  of  her  once 
piquant  tigtirc  that  Etty  was  really  ahnost  justi- 
fied in  saying  that  to  walk  round  the  dear  lady 
was  a  very  good  day's  exercise. 

Mrs.  Gurley,  over  and  above  her  imperturba- 
ble temper  and  active  amiability,  participated 
largely  in  her  husband's  shrewdness  and  com- 
mon sense.  A  more  judicious,  as  well  as  cordial 
fi'iend,  it  was  impossible  for  me  and  Etty  to  have 
found.  Laughton,  like  every  other  little,  town, 
and  evei'v  great  town  too,  had  its  sets,  and 
cliques,  and  rivalries,  and  classes  separated'from, 
yet  running  into,  each  other.  In  entering  a  new 
world  the  success  of  an  adventurer  depends  very 
much  on  tlie  first  start.  A  bad  introduction, 
leading  at  the  outset  to  a  few  injudicious  friend- 
ships, is  often  the  source  of  endless  embarrass- 
ment and  jjermanent  injury  to  a  stranger  set- 
tling in  a  new  community.  Now,  had  it  not 
been  for  Mrs.  Gurley,  I  and  Etty  should  never 
have  dreamed  of  this ;  for  at  Farnham  Cobb, 
and  in  that  secluded  part  of  the  corn  country  in 
which  we  had  been  brought  up,  there  was  no 
"society,"  in  the  most  artificial  sense  of  the 
^^•ord,  and  we  had  known  and  spoken  familiarly 
to  every  one  who  crossed  our  path  without  ever 
for  a  moment  debating  whether  it  was  prudent 
to  do  so.  At  Laughton  we  found  it  was  neces- 
sary to  be  very  careful  about  "our  position"  until 
it  was  exactly  ascertained  and  generally  allowed. 

The  dissenters  (there  were  no  dissenters  at 
Farnham  Cobb)  of  Laughton  held  little  com- 
munion with  church-goers ;  but  notwithstand- 
ing that  Etty  and  I  were  known  to  be  the  grand- 
daughters of  a  clergyman,  the  ladies  of  the  dis- 
senting interest  called  on  us,  inviting  us  to  tea, 
and  ofiering  us  their  children  as  daj'-pupils. 
Left  to  ourselves,  Etty  and  I  would  have  grate- 
fully accepted  these  hospitable  advances,  and 
snai)ped  at  the  proffered  additions  to  our  class. 
But  jMrs.  Gurley  fortunately  came  to  our  rescue, 
and  saved  us  fi-om  the  grave  disaster  of  giving 
offense  to  the  rector's  family,  and  the  best  fami- 
lies of  the  town,  by  holding  an  unwise  intercourse 
with  the  non-conformist  sects.  I  can  not  say  I 
liked  it  when  I  discovered  the  necessity  for  this 
caution.  I  should  unquestionably  have  preferred 
either  that  there  had  been  no  dissenters,  or  that 
I  had  been  at  liberty  to  deal  with  them  without 
reference  to  their  peculiar  ojnnions  and  social 
position ;  but  I  and  Etty  had  to  take  the  world 
as  we  found  it.  We  had  not  settled  the  world's 
ways  and  institutions  ;  and  if  they  were  in  fault, 
it  was  no  appointed  work  of  ours  to  reform  them. 
The  laws  of  society'  were  to  us  the  opinions  of  our 
elders  and  superiors,  and  the  wishes  of  our  ben- 
efactors; and  like  modest  young  women  we  did 
our  best  to  regulate  our  conduct  by  them.  So 
we  wisely  trusted  to  Mrs.  Gurley's  guidance ;  and 
she,  with  her  inseparable  kindness  and  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  world  in  which  she  lived,  showed 
us  how  to  keep  the  dissenting  ladies  at  a  distance 
and  yet  give  them  no  needless  pain. 

Mrs.  Gurley  had  great  claims  on  our  gratitude, 
and  I  am  pleased  to  recollect  that  those  claims 
were  fully  recognized  by  us.  But  still  it  makes 
me  smile  to  remember  how  the  little  round  lady 
instructed  us  in  the  veriest  A  B  C  of  polite  life. 
She  prevailed  upon  us  to  discard  our  old  cluni- 
Bily-made  bonnets,  and  scant  skirts,  and  thick 
shoes,  and  marvelous  cloaks — which  at  Farnham 


Cobb  had  been  regarded  as  being  in  the  highest 
fashion — and  place  ourselves  in  the  hands  of  the 
chief  milliner  of  Laughton,  who  had  a  box  of 
London  goods  by  nearly  every  "down"  coach 
that  entered  the  town.  I  shall  never  forget  how 
delighted  and  nervous  Etty  and  I  were  over  our 
first  really  well-constructed  bonnets,  and  shoes 
of  Paris  kid,  and  silk  cloaks,  and  Dent's  kid 
gloves.  We  were  thoroughly  ]jloased  with  them, 
although  they  were  black,  and  my  dear  grand- 
father had  been  dead  quite  six  months.  What 
talk  we  had  over  the  "new  things!"  and  how 
we  criticised  and  admired  each  other  in  our  new 
dresses  "all  stuffed  out"  with  a  very  simjde  ap- 
paratus that  was  at  Farnham  Cobb  conijiletely 
unknown  to  us.  The  first  time  we  went  to 
church  in  our  new  attire  we  thought  every  one 
was  looking  at  us — and,  to  be  sure,  every  one 
did  look  at  us.  Mrs.  Gurley,  too,  jjrocurcd  us 
our  first  calling-cards,  and  instructed  us  in  the 
proper  way  of  using  them.  At  Farnham  Cobb 
I  question  whether  I  ever  saw  a  calling-card, 
save  those  dear  Julian  had  his  own  name  en- 
graved on,  at  his  uncle  Gower's  request,  for  the 
purpose  of  leaving  them  on  his  grand  aunt  in 
Russell  Square.  One  of  the  cards  he  gave  me 
as  a  curiosity,  and  I  have  it  among  my  private 
stores  to  this  day. 

We  had  scarcely  opened  our  school  when  a 
great  piece  of  good  fortune  happened  to  me. 
The  post  of  organist  to  the  Laughton  church  be- 
came vacant,  and  through  Mr.  Gurley's  influence 
,with  the  rate-payers  it  was  conferred  on  me. 
The  salaiy  of  £30  per  annum  was  an  acceptable 
addition  to  our  income ;  but  even  more  accept- 
able was  the  privilege  of  entering  the  church  by 
a  private  key  whenever  we  liked  for  the  purpose 
of  practicing  on  the  organ,  which  was  a  noble 
one,  presented  to  the  parish  by  Sir  Marmaduke 
Clare.  Etty  had  quite  as  much  command  over 
the  organ  as  myself,  though  I  was  the  official  or- 
ganist ;  and  we  used  to  take  turns  both  in  prac- 
ticing and  in  performing  to  the  congregation 
during  divine  service.  After  the  duties  of  our 
school  were  over  it  was  a  refreshing  relaxation 
to  enter  the  church  and  break  the  solemn  silence 
of  the  sacred  place  with  floods  of  yet  more  sol- 
emn music.  In  the  evenings  of  summer,  and 
when  the  autumnal  moons  sent  their  rays  across 
the  dark  aisles,  Etty  and  I,  having  first  seen  our 
"boarders"  in  bed  and  asleep,  used  to  steal  un- 
der the  cedar-tree  of  our  pretty  garden,  and 
crossing  over  the  road,  enter  the  church  togeth- 
er for  an  hour  or  two  hours'  enjoyment.  We 
would  ]>lay  to  each  othei-  by  turns.  The  towns- 
people soon  heard  of  our  custom,  and  they  began 
to  walk  in  the  church-yard  during  the  evenings 
for  the  sake  of  hearing  the  music  within  the  walls. 
But  our  auditors  never  embarrassed  us.  As  soon 
as  the  organ  ceased  to  send  forth  sounds,  the  ten, 
or  twenty,  or  thirty  listeners  (collected  on  the 
precinct)  quickly  dispersed ;  and  when  Etty  and 
I  emerged  from  the  church  we  were  still  alone, 
and — tlianks  to  the  delicacy  of  those  to  whom  we 
had  lieen  jdaying — we  recrossed  the  road  and  re- 
entered our  garden  imwatched. 

It  was  not  long  ere  we  discovered  that  we  were 
held  in  much  estimation  among  the  townsmen 
as  young  ladies  of  high  quality.  Mr.  Gurley  and 
Mr.  Choate,  wishing  to  secure  us  the  best  possi- 
ble footing  in  the  higher  families  of  the  town  and 
its  immediate  vicinity,  had  spoken  of  us  as  mem- 


OLIVE  BLARES  GOOD  WORK. 


49 


bers  of  the  Laughton  Abbey  family.  Perhaps 
they  were  not  wise  in  all  respects  for  doing  so ; 
but  their  course  of  action  was  entered  upon  from 
the  kindest  motives  to  us,  ami  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  assign  any  reason  why  they  should 
have  refrained  from  mentioning  a  fact  which 
was  well  known  to  others  besides  themselves. 
They  did  not  know  that  my  grandfather  had 
brought  us  up  in  perfect  ignorance  of  our  near 
rplationship  to  the  once  great,  but  now  fallen, 
county  family ;  and  that,  up  to  the  very  time 
of  her  commencing  her  residence  in  "The  Cot- 
tage," Etty  had  never  been  told  she  was  the 
grand-niece  of  Sir  Marmaduke  Clare,  had  never 
even  heard  that  distinguishctl  person's  name. 

Among  the  first  families  to  call  ujioii  ns  at 
"The  Cottage"  was  the  rector.  The  Rev.  Au- 
gustus Butterworth  was  the  rector's  name;  and 
as  his  living  was  worth  nearly  4;2000  per  annum, 
and  as  he  was  a  county  magistrate,  he  was  an 
important  personage  in  the  town  and  for  five 
miles  round  it.  Indeed,  when  there  was  no 
"family"  at  the  Abbey,  Mr.  Butterworth  was 
Ljrd-Lieutenant  of  Laughton  and  all  its  de- 
pendencies. A  gaunt,  florid,  and  sleepy  man, 
he  was  a  widower  with  three  expensive  sons  in 
the  army,  and  three  maiden  sisters  of  advanced 
years,  who  lived  in  the  rectory,  and  drove  out 
daily  in  their  brother's  huge  yellow  barouche, 
with  a  powdered  footman — powdered  exactly  as 
the  Abbey  footmen  were — balancing  himself  on 
a  board  behind,  and  flattening  his  nose  with  a 
silver-headed  cane  as  he  stared  at  the  coachman 
(also  powdered)  on  the  box.  As  the  rectory  was 
at  the  other  end  of  the  town,  and  at  least  a  mile 
and  a  half  distant  from  the  church,  this  equipage 
always  brought  the  rectory  party  down  to  the 
Sunday  services — the  Rev.  Augustus  Butterworth 
sitting  arrayed  in  his  canonicals,  and  his  three 
maiden  sisters  of  advanced  years  looking  rather 
thin  and  very  stately. 

These  three  ladies  had  the  reputation  in  Laugh- 
ton of  being  very  proud.  Indeed  Mrs.  Gurley, 
in  privacy  and  stiict  confidence,  told  me  and 
Etty  that  they  were  as  "proud  as  Lucifer,  and 
as  weak  as  gruel."  But  they  were  very  affable 
to  us  when  they  called,  though  their  big  carriage 
nearly  filled  up  our  little  garden,  and  the  finest 
branch  of  our  cedar-tree  caught  their  footman's 
Splendid  gold-laced  hat,  and  sent  it  rolling  into 
the  fish-pond. 

"  What  a  sweet,  pretty  place  !"  obsei'ved  Miss 
Argentine  Butterworth,  graciously,  having  sur- 
veyed the  garilen  while  her  two  sisters  were  get- 
ting into  the  carriage,  and  Etty  and  I,  to  do  full 
honor  to  our  guests,  were  standing  under  the 
clematis  whieli  covered  our  porch  to  witness 
their  departure.  "Really  an  exquisite  place! 
and  so  delightful  for  you  to  have  such  a  view  of 
your  family  proj)erty." 

Of  the  three  sisters  Miss  Argentine  Butter- 
worth was  the  most  talkative.  She  spoke  in  a 
full  and  authoritative  tone,  and  was  prone  to 
state  matters  known  to  every  body  in  a  voice 
implying  that,  till  she  o))ened  her  lips,  they  were 
known  only  to  herself. 

"The  park  and  abb?y  form  a  beautiful  scene," 
I  said. 

"Ay !"  responded  Miss  Argentine  in  her  most 

magnificent  style,    "and  it  is  not  simply  their 

beauty  that  you  enjoy.     You  have  a  thousand 

sweet,  domestic  associations  and  a  fine  historic 

D 


pride  to  endear  that  noble  prospect  to  your  af- 
fections. In  these  republican  times  the  jileasiires 
which  a  properly  constituted  mind  derives  from 
the  contemplation  of  ancestral  dignity  are  fre- 
(piently  made  the  subject  of  vulgar  ridicule. 
But  gentlewomen  of  ancient  descent,  like  our- 
selves, Miss  Tree,  are  not  likely  to  show  favor 
to  a  pernicious  heresy." 

I  was  rather  uneasy  at  this  speech.  I  was 
afraid  Etty  woidd  say  something  that  would  be- 
tray her  ignorance  of  our  connection  with  the 
Abbey  family,  and  so  necessitate  an  awkward 
explanation  of  a  family  secret.  To  tell  the  truth 
also,  I  did  not  care  to  sink  in  Miss  Argentine 
Butterworth's  estimation.  I  would  not  deceive 
her,  but  why  should  I  present  her  with  a  series 
of  needless  communications  which  would  only 
make  her  feel  less  kindly  tome?  It  was,  there- 
fore, with  a  sensation  of  relief  that  I  saw  Miss 
Argentine  take  her  seat  and  bow  us  a  farewell 
ere  Etty  had  sjioken  another  word. 

The  huge  yellow  equipage  rolled  out  of  the 
gaiden,  bearing  the  grand  footman  behind,  with 
his  magnificent  hat,  rescued  from  the  fish-pond, 
and  (from  the  combined  effects  of  cold  water  and 
subsequent  brushing)  shining  like  a  new  piece  of 
invtent  leather. 

"  In  the  name,  Tibby,"  exclaimed  Etty,  open- 
ing her  eyes  to  their  extreme  width,  as  soon  as  the 
carriage  had  turned  into  the  road — "In  the  name 
of  all  the  mysteries  on  the  earth,  and  in  the  earth, 
and  in  the  waters  under  the  earth,  what  did  that 
old  cockatoo  mean  by  calling  you  '  a  gentlewo- 
man of  ancient  descent?'  I  have  heard  poor 
dear  Mrs.  Skettle  say,  '  When  gentlefolks  meet, 
compliments  pass;'  but  I  never  dreamed  of  such 
stuff"  as  that.  A  gentlewoman  of  ancient  de- 
scent !  Who  ever  heard  such  nonsense  ?  Mrs. 
Gurley  is  always  preaching  to  us  about  'the 
rules  of  good  society:'  I'll  ask  her  if  it's  ac- 
cording to  the  '  rules  of  good  society'  for  two  la- 
dies, clothed  and  in  their  right  minds,  who  know 
just  nothing  of  each  other,  to  call  each  other  all 
sorts  of  polite  names  ?  What's  the  matter  with 
the  woman,  Tibby?  Tell  me  that.  Has  she 
escaped  from  Bedlam  ?  Is  she  going  to  die  and 
leave  you  a  large  fortune  ?  Are  you  a  Queen  of 
England,  and  I  a  Princess  Royal?  What  does 
it  mean  ?" 

"Hush,  Etty  1"  I  exclaimed  as  soon  as  I  had 
nerve  enough  to  break  in  upon  her  torrent  of 
questions,  iijtermingled  with  laughter.  "Hush, 
Etty,  you'll  get  us  into  disgrace.  Some  of  the 
children  will  hear  you." 

"Bother  the  children!"  answered  Etty,  flatly, 
stamjiing  her  litilc  foot  on  the  ground,  just  as 
she  used  to  do  when  she  ])layed  "going  mad" 
as  a  little  gill.  " It's  a  half-holiday.  The  day- 
pupils  are  not  here,  and  the  others  are  busy, 
writing  their  weekly  letters  home." 

"  But,  my  dear  Etty,  you  should  be  more  cau- 
tious," I  exjjostidated ;  "you  must  keep  a  curb 
on  your  tongue,  and  not  let  it  run  riot.  Think 
what  the  consequences  would  be  if  Miss  Argen- 
tine Butterworth  were  to  hear  that  you  had  spoken 
of  her  as  'that  old  cockatoo?'  Indeed,  Etty, 
we  must  be  cautious,  and  not  shock  the  public 
sense  of  propriety !" 

I  put  on  my  gravest  air  as  I  said  this. 

"Oh,  my  dear  little  'gentlewoman  of  ancient 
descent, 'how  admirably  you  scold  !  you've  caught 
quite  the  knack  of  it !     If  yon  only  go  on  in  this 


60 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


way  our  school  will  be  the  best  one  all  through 
the  county.  I  declare  we  ought  to  raise  the 
terms.  Not  call  her  '  that  old  cockatoo  ?'  Then 
why  docs  she  wear  a  jiink  bonnet  and  a  blue  par- 
asol ?" 

What  was  I  to  do  with  her  ?  I  could  not  be 
angry — she  was  so  bewitchingly  and  roguishly 
beautiftd  as  she  ran  on  this  mad  way.  I  could 
almost  have  cried  witli  vexation,  and  I  knew  my 
tears  would  reduce  her  to  submission. 

It  was,  as  she  said,  a  lialf-holiday.  So  I  put 
my  arms  round  her  waist  and  pulled  her  along 
with  me  into  the  summer-house. 

"There,  Miss  Madcaj),"  I  said,  when  she  liad 
taken  a  seat  quietly  by  my  side,  "here  is  the 
park,  and  up  on  the  hill  stands  the  mansion 
whicli  Sir  Marmaduke  Clare  restored  and  beau- 
tified. Listen  to  me  while  I  tell  j-ou  a  story 
about  it  and  him." 

Then  I  told  lier  faithftdly  and  accurately  as  I 
knew  it  the  story  of  the  two  brothers — the  story 
of  Sir  Marmaduke  Clare  and  the  Ilev.  Solomon 
Easv. 


CHAPTER  JX. 


A   WISE    RESOLUTION. 


Mt  story  had  an  attentive  auditor,  and  from 
that  day  Etty  frequently  reverted  to  its  subject, 
which  had  a  strong  captivation  for  my  mind  as 
well  as  hers.  There  are  few  objects  that  appeal 
more  forcibly  to  the  imagination  of  inexperienced 
persons  than  a  palace  suiTounded  by  a  noble  park. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  imposing  and  beautiful  forms 
in  which  wealth  can  be  displayed ;  and  wealth 
has  a  fascination  for  human  creatures  of  every 
rank,  and  pursuit,  and  disposition.  So  beauti- 
ful and  magnificent  an  abode  as  Laughton  Ab- 
bey neither  Etty  nor  I  had  elsewhere  seen,  and 
days  befoi-e  she  learned  that  the  fair  domain  be- 
longed to  her  kindred  she  had  constructed  many 
pretty  romances  about  its  history  and  owners. 
A  vision  of  a  beautiful  heiress  had  occupied  her 
idle  moments.  And  more  than  once  the  thought 
had  crossed  her  mind  as  to  what  she  would  do 
with  so  splendid  an  estate  if  a  benign  fairy  were 
to  present  it  to  her.  She  told  me  so,  with  much 
energy  of  manner  and  many  blushes  for  her  ab- 
surd folly. 

The  charms  of  the  beautiful  landscape  that 
surrounded  our  cottage  were  now,  ^otli  to  her 
and  me,  enhanced  by  the  sort  of  ])ersonal  inter-' 
est  that  we  felt  we  had  a  right  to  take  in  it.  We 
contracted  a  habit  of  speaking  of  the  Abbey  es- 
tate as  belonging  to  "our  cousins,"  though  we 
had  never  known  those  cousins.  It  will  doubt- 
less raise  the  reader's  derision ;  but  candor  com- 
pels me  to  confess  that  I  cherished  a  silly  pride 
in  my  distant  relations  whom  I  well  knew  to  be 
destined  to  as  humble  a  lot  as  our  own,  and,  in 
all  j)robability,  to  a  less  useful  career  than  that 
by  which  I  was  earning  my  Ijread.  We  borrowed 
from  Mr.  Gurley  his  two  ponderous  volmnes  of 
County  History  and  read  the  cliaptcr  whicli  re- 
lates tlie  grandeur  and  achievements  of  tlie  Clares 
in  former  centuries,  long  l)efore  my  dear  grand- 
father's unworthy  brotlier  had  seized  their  wealtii 
by  an  act  of  base  perfidy ;  and  by  the  time  we 
returned  the  history  to  our  benefactor"  we  al- 
most conceived  ourselves  to  be  tv.o  unfortunate 
princesses.     Fortunately  for  us  the  gratification 


of  this  contemptible  vanity  was  only  the  amuse- 
ment of  our  leisure  and  private  moments,  and 
did  not  lure  us  from  an  honest  discharge  of  our 
daily  duties ;  so  it  did  not  injure  others,  though 
it  did  both  me  and  Etty  grievous  harm. 

The  shooting  season  was  fast  approaching,  and 
the  Abbey  was  undergoing  preparation  for  an  in- 
llux  of  visitors.     The  place  had  been  hired  for 
three  years  liy  Artliur  Byfield  Petersham,  the 
only  son  and  heir  of  Mr.  Petersham,  the  great) 
banker   and   loan-contractor   of  the   house    of  • 
"  Petersham  and  Blake."    Week  after  week  the 
county  papers  gave  us  fresh  particulars  concern-  ■ 
ing  the  importance  of  that  powerful  firm,  and  i 
the  gentleman  who  was  to  succeed  to  its  accum-  i 
ulations.     Mr.  Petersham,  senior,  was  an  East 
India  director,  an  active  and  venerable  member, 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  and  the  owner  of  land . 
in  several  difltbrent  counties,  by  virtue  of  which 
he  had  at  his  command  five  votes  in  the  Com- 
mons.    It  was  remarked  that  his  son,  Arthur  i 
Byfield  Petersham,  had  no  place  in  Parliament, 
though  it  was  manifest  that  he  might  long  since 
on  his  father's  nomination  have  commanded  that| 
dignity.     The  rumor  s])rcad  that  the  young  man 
was  anxious  of  securing  the  representation  of 
Laughton,  and  tliat  his  wish  to  do  so  was  one : 
reason  why  he  had  hired  the  Abbey.     It  was  | 
also  understood  that  if  Mr.  Arthur  Byfield  Pe-  i 
tersham's  residence  at  Laughton  should  y)rove  ■ 
agreeable   to  him,  he  contemplated  purchasing 
the  estate  at  the  sale  which  would  take  i)lace  on 
the  expiration  of  his  three  years'  lease. 

Mr.  Gurley,  as  steward  of  the  Abbey  estate,  ■ 
was  of  coiu-se  well-informed  on  the  antecedents 
and  position  of  the  Petersham  family.  Lombard 
Street  had  known  the  house  of  Petersham  for 
more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  years.  The  com- 
mercial prosperity  of  the  house  had  been  of  slow 
but  unchecked  growth  until  the  closing  years  of 
Napoleon's  career,  when,  in  consequence  of  trans- 
actions with  continental  ])Owers,  it  liad  made  rap- 
id advances  and  reached  its  present  eminence. 
At  the  close  of  the  last  century  Mr.  Blake  was 
taken  into  partnershi]),  and  the  house  became 
"Petersham  and  Blake."  The  first  Mr.  Peter- 
sham of  that  partnership  had  died  long  since,  be- 
ing the  grandsire  of  Arthur  Byfield  Petersham. 
Mr.  Blake  also  had  died  some  eight  or  ten  years 
back,  leaving  enormous  wealth  behind  him,  which 
an  only  daughter,  Miss  Olive  Blake,  and  the 
children  that  should  be  born  to  her  would,  un- 
der certain  conditions,  enjoy.  There  was  some 
sort  of  family  comi)act  that  the  heiress  of  the  one 
partner,  and  the  heir  of  the  other — viz.,  Mr.  Ar- 
tliur Byfield  Petersham  and  Miss  Olive  Blake — 
should  unite  by  marriage  the  fortunes  amassed 
by  their  fatlicrs. 

Before  the  arrival  of  "the  family"  Etty  and  I, 
accom]iaiiitd  by  our  boarders,  made  an  expedi- 
tion to  tlie  Abbey,  and  calling  on  Mrs.  Tate  easily 
prevailed  on  that  good  woman  to  take  us  tiirough 
the  rooms  I  liad  about  ten  months  before  visited 
with  my  dear  grandfather.  I  particularly  direct- 
ed Etty's  attention  to  tlie  portraits  of  Gertrude 
Clare  and  Sir  Marmaduke  Clare;  and  then  we 
minutely  inspected  the  gardens  surrounding  ll.c 
mansion — passing  througli  the  pineries  and  con- 
servatories, the  garden  of  the  fountains,  and  ilie 
quaint,  old,  geometric  garden,  with  its  grotesque- 
ly-cut box-trees  and  fences  fashioned  hy  topiary 
art  (which  had  existed  for  generations,  long  be- 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


61 


fore  the  old  rod-brick  hall  had  been  covered  with 
an  Italian  front,  and  enlarged  witli  wings),  the 
tennis-court,  the  bowling-green,  the  grottoes,  and 
the  maze  shrubberies. 

We  enjoyed  our  excursion  very  much  at  the 
time ;  but  when  the  day  was  at  an  end,  and 
when,  our  pupils  in  bed,  we  sat  down  to  our  cus- 
tomary quiet  supper  of  fruit  and  rice-milk,  we 
were  botii  so  out  of  spirits  that  we  could  not  par- 
take of  any  thing.  The  ))ortraits  of  Gertrude 
and  Sir  Marmaduke  had  brought  back  vividly  to 
me  tiie  recollection  of  my  dear  grandfather — 
how  he  had  loved  and  been  betrayed ;  how  in 
his  sere  and  white  old  age  he  had  gazed  with 
bitter  anguish  on  the  semblance  of  the  fair  creat- 
ure who  had  set  his  life  wrong  at  its  outset !  It 
was  scarce  credible  that  he  had  been  dead  so 
short  a  time,  and  I  had  made  so  many  new  in- 
terests, and  found  so  many  new  cares,  and  given 
myself  up  to  so  many  new  vanities,  that  I  only 
now  and  then  thought  of  him  ! 

"Tibby,  "said  my  sister,  breaking  my  mourn- 
ful reflections,  "do  have  the  supper  taken  away. 
I  do  not  want  it.  I  am  thinking  of  dear  grand- 
papa, and  tiiinking  that  I  am  a  very  wicked, 
heartless  girl."  And  having  said  this,  she  fell 
into  a  long  fit  of  that  hysteric  weeping  which 
young  and  delicate  girls  are  liable  to  when  they 
are  deeply  agitated. 

" Oh,  Tibby,  Tibby,  what  a  cruel  life  was  his! 
what  cruel  sorrow  he  had  to  endure  I"  the  dear 
child  continued.  "Only  to  think  of  it!  If  I 
had  but  known  it,  I  should  have  been  a  better 
child  to  him !  If  he  were  but  alive  again,  I 
should  know  how  to  comfort  him  !" 

"  Darling,"  I  said,  "  sooner  or  later  every  hu- 
man heart  finds  its  allotted  sorrow.  If  the  grief 
appointed  to  our  dear  grandfather  was  far  be- 
yond that  appointed  to  most  men,  his  was  a  no- 
ble nature — able  to  suffer  it  without  complain- 
ing, and  endure  it  without  deterioration  " 

"Don't  talk  calmly  about  it,  Tibby,"  she  aTi- 
swered,  passianately.  "Your  words  won't  com- 
fort me,  for  I  can't  bear  them.  To  have  his  love 
basely  robbed  from  him  by  his  own  brother !  As 
I  saw  that  hateful  portrait  in  the  gallery  to-day 
it  made  me  shiver.  Oh,  my  ]ioor,  poor  grand- 
father !  Even  suppose  his  brother  had  not  with 
vile  perfidy  abused  his  confidence,  but  had  un- 
conscioushj  stepped  in  bcibre  him — even  then  how 
hard  his  fate!  Think,  Tibby,  of  me  and  Ju- 
lian :  how  coifte  I  feel  as  a  sister  to  you,  if  you, 
ignorant  that  I  loved  Julian,  had  won  his  heart 
from  me?" 

Addressed  to  me,  these  words  were  literally  so 
terrible  that  I  started  from  my  seat  by  her  side. 
I  can  not  even  now  account  for  my  sensations, 
but  can  only  state  them  without  reasoning  upon 
them.  For  a  moment  a  feeling  of  acute,  vin- 
dictive resentment  toward  the  innocent  cause  of 
my  hidden  sorrow  shot  througli  my  breast.  I 
am  right  to  use  the  word.  It  slmt  ihrmujh  my 
breast.  It  did  not  stay  there;  but  was  there 
for  such  a  speck  of  time  that  it  is  a  marvel  how 
it  affected  me  so  deeply,  that  I  even  now  can  re- 
call it  as  vividly  as  I  felt  it.  Had  it  held  the 
mastery  of  me  for  a  single  minute,  I  do  verily 
believe  that  all  the  good  would  have  been  driven 
out  of  my  nature,  and  that  my  whole  after-life 
would  have  been  scarred  and  wasted  by  passion. 
But  an  angel  was  by  my  side  protecting  me,  and 
saying  in  clear  silver  tones,  "Whatever  tempta- 


tions you  may  have  to  resist,  let  nothing  separate 
you  from  Etty.  Cling  to  her ;  make  her  cling 
to  you.  To  quarrel  with  one's  own  blood  is  to 
cut  through  one's  own  heart." 

"  Had  such  been  tlie  case,  dear  Etty,"  said  I, 
resuming  my  seat  by  her  side,  "you  would  not 
have  left  off  feeling  for  me  as  a  sister.  You 
would  have  been  twice  a  sister  to  me — adding  to 
your  former  love  for  me  all  the  love  you  had  for 
Julian." 

I  then  led  her  to  talk  of  Julian ;  and  wlien 
she  had  dried  her  tears  and  grown  calm,  I  in- 
duced her  to  bring  out  her  collection  of  his  let- 
ters, and  we  read  them  together,  as  we  had 
more  than  once  read  them  before. 

"Etty,  darling,"!  said,  when  we  had  finished 
the  South  American  epistles,  "your  birthday  is 
fast  coming.  When  it  has  arrived  I'll  make  you 
a  present  of  all  the  letters  Julian  ever  wrote  to 
me.     You  ought  to  have  them." 

I  sat  by  Etty  after  she  was  in  bed  that  night, 
talking  to  her  after  the  old  fashion ;  and  when 
at  a  late  hour  I  rose  to  give  her  a  final  kiss  and 
to  take  my  departure,  she  said,  "  Tibby,  for  our 
own  sakes,  I  wish  we  had  no  connection  with  the 
Clares  of  Laughtoa  Abbej.  We  can't  undo  the 
past,  but  let  us  try  to  forget  it." 

"  Quite  right,  my  dear,  and  bravely  said.  We 
will  forget  all  about  it,"  I  answered. 

And  I  went  off  to  my  bed  far  happier  than  I 
had  been  ever  since  that  ridiculous  stuff  about 
our  belonging  to  a  grand  family,  and  being  un- 
fortunate members  of  the  aristocracy,  had  crept 
into  my  head. 


CHAPTER  X. 


MT   FIRST    GREAT   ACQUAINTANCE. 

About  a  week  after  our  excursion  to  Laugh- 
ton  Abbey  Etty  and  I  were  in  the  school-room 
at  "morning's  lessons."  Etty  had  the  little  spell- 
ing-class before  her,  and  I  was  hearing  the  sec- 
ond French  class  say  their  vei-bs.  Jessie  East- 
bourne was  beating  away  at  the  barren  keys  of 
the  old  Farnharm  Cobb  "  instrument,"  and  Ma- 
bel Rice  (my  best  drawing-pupil)  was  shading  in 
a  picturesque  old  barn — with  a  superb  lake,  an 
oak-tree  of  the  cabbage  formation,  and  an  old 
woman  in  the  fore-ground.  There  were  no 
Harding's  "Studies"  in  those  days,  and  children 
were  put  to  copy  the  most  atrocious  forms  of 
unartistic  misrejjrescntation.  Indeed,  when  Etty 
and  I  kept  school  at  Laughton,  the  common 
forms  (as  lawyers  would  say)  of  educational  pro- 
ceedings were  of  a  very  crude  and  unelaborated 
kind.  ]\Ir.  Gurley,  whose  sound  practical  sa- 
gacity made  him  in  many  respects  a  man  before 
his  generation,  often  told  us  so — using  that  very 
expression. 

W^e  were  thus  engaged  when  Etty  exclaimed, 
"Oh,  look!" 

In  an  instant  the  eyes  of  all  the  college  were 
turned  to  the  window,  and  a  general  chorus  ex- 
claimed, "What  a  beautiful  pony!" 

"It's Mr.  Petersham,  the  'millionaire,' "I said, 
demurely,  and  in  a  tone  of  authority — pleased 
with  myself  for  seeing  so  quickly  the  secret  of 
the  position,  and  almost  feeling  that  I  was  im- 
parting a  valuable  piece  of  infonnation  to  my 
liujiils.     "  'Tis  Mr.  Petersham,  riding  round  the 


52 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


park  to  see  liow  he  likes  it."     Of  course  I  spoke 
not  of  the  i)oiiy  hut  its  rider. 

"Oil!"  exehiimed  the  college,  stopping  work 
and  breaking  uj)  the  classes,  and  making  the 
sciiool-room  a  scene  of  unprecedented  confu- 
sion. 

The  cause  of  our  commotion  was  this:  Tlie 
school-room  was  at  the  end  of  the  cottage  near- 
est the  park,  not  ten  yards  of  garden  lawn  in- 
tervening between  its  princijial  window  anil  the 
sunk  fence,  which  separated  us  from  the  Abbey 
inclosure.  As  light  was  a  great  desideratum  in 
the  school-room,  and  no  one  was  in  the  habit  of 
passing  before  the  window,  w^hich  ran  from  the 
ceiling  almost  down  to  the  ground,  we  had  not 
furnished  it  with  a  muslin  curtain  or  blind,  but 
sat  with  no  artificial  material  save  glass  between 
us  and  the  timber  of  the  outer  park. 

The  ajjparition  of  a  large  and  beautiful  milk- 
white  pony,  led  by  a  game-keeper,  and  bearing 
an  old  gentleman — and  passing  before  our  win- 
dow— within  twelve  yards  of  Etty's  official  chair, 
was  an  occurrence  justifying  excitement.  It  was 
a  positive  spectacle  for  me.  The  pony!  I  had 
never  seen  such  a  beautiful  creature !  Fourteen 
hands  high,  white  and  rieh  in  coat  as  a  creamy 
kid  glove,  the  muscles  of  its  broad  chest  and 
round  hind-quarters  giving  emphasis  to  the  del- 
icacy of  its  thin  clean  legs,  a  snuffing  nostril  and 
a  curved  neck,  silky  mane  and  forelock,  and  a 
dainty  tread  on  the  green  turf!  Such  were  tlie 
graces  of  the  animal.  In  a  very  different  way 
the  rider  was  not  less  imposing.  His  dress,  term- 
inating in  huge  boots  and  leggings  of  fine  black 
cloth,  showed  me  at  a  glance  that  his  lower  ex- 
tremities were  well-nigh  cri])pled  with  gout.  In- 
deed I  found  out  afterward  that  he  had  to  be 
lifted  up  and  put  on  the  pony's  back  like  a  child. 
An  ami)le  breadth  of  body — it  might  indeed  be 
termed  corpulence — indicated  that  he  was  not 
averse  to  the  pleasures  of  the  table.  But  the 
head  and  face !  As  he  passed  our  window  at  a 
slow  walk  and  looked  round  at  us,  observantly 
but  doubtless  with  a  knowledge  that  mere  rus- 
tics would  not  object  to  being  stared  at  by  him, 
I  understood  that  intellect  and  high  character  of 
a  certain  kind  are  necessary  for  the  production 
of  a  great  financier  and  capitalist  as  well  as  any 
thing  else  that  is  great.  The  eye  that  glanced  at 
us  from  beneath  a  full  snowy  ej'cbrow  was  black, 
and  as  keen  and  liriglit  as  ever  a  young  man's 
could  be.  His  face,  like  his  body,  was  ])ltim]) 
and  rather  more  than  merely  well-fed;  i)Ut  to 
its  regular  profile,  large  but  \\ell-si)a])i'd  mouth, 
and  broad  as  well  as  high  white  brow,  ])ower, 
and  calm  self-reliance,  and  long-cndnring  pur- 
pose had  given  their  distinctive  aspect.  The  old 
man's  white  hair,  moreover,  was  not  long,  and 
straight,  and  thin,  as  the  gray  locks  of  agi;  usu- 
ally are,  but  it  came  in  soft  curls  down  to  tiie 
collar  of  his  shooting-c(iat,  and  had  a  yelU)w  tint 
that  causecl  me  to  think  of  the  rich  juices,  rather 
tlmn  the  sere  exhaustion,  of  life. 

Fifty  yards  beyond  us  ran  a  ]ilantation,  skirt- 
ing the  outer  park,  and  screening  a  turnip-field 
fruni  the  observation  of  the  mansion  on  the  dis- 
i:nit  liill.  A  covey  of  hu:kless  ])artiiiiges  had 
chanced  to  cmnc  from  the  turni])-ficld  over  the 
fence  (iildiig  which  the  |il:iiifali(iii  ran)  for  a 
walk  in  the  ])ark.  Moving  up  silently  iind(!r  the 
fence,  the  white  pony  came  down  upon  them 
before  they  were  aware  of  the  ajiin-oaching  dan- 


ger. The  birds  ran  forward  and  rose,  and  be- 
ing strong  ill  the  wing  they  were  getting  away, 
when  Mr.  I'etersham  deliberately  took  the  gun 
l)roffered  to  him  by  the  keejjer,  and  firing  off 
i)otli  barrels  brought  down  the  two  hindmost 
birds,  that  flew  madly,  and  apart  from  each 
other,  out  of  the  line  taken  by  the  rest  of  the 
feathered  herd.  I  could  not  hclj)  remarking  that 
the  veteran  sportman  was  in  no  hurry  to  take  his 
gun,  but  waited,  ere  he  handled  it,  till  the  birds 
were  at  a  h^ng  range  from  him,  and  that  when 
he  did  use  it  he  fired  not  at  the  body  of  the  covey 
but  at  the  two  last  birds.  I  c<iuld  not  fail  de- 
tecting character  even  in  this  slight  occurrence. 
We  watched  him  for  half  a  minute  longer,  when 
another  keeper,  accompanied  by  two  sporting 
dogs,  joined  him,  and  the  party,  thus  increased, 
turned  into  an  avenue  and  disappeared  from  our 
sight.  It  may  not  be  thought  that  I  have  rested 
too  long  on  this  event,  for  Mr.  Petersham  was 
eighty-four  years  of  age. 

We  resumed  our  studies ;  but  it  was  hard  to 
do  so.  The  white  i)Ony  and  the  handsome  old 
gentleman  had  rendered  us  all  disinclined  for 
the  hnmdrumniery  of  les.sons.  Moreover  the 
guns,  now  heard  ])0]iping  off  in  two  directly  o])- 
posite  quarters,  kept  us  in  a  fever — routing  us 
up  just  as  we  were  again  throwing  heart  into 
our  prosaic  occu])ations. 

Laughton  was  in  great  excitement.  Every 
one  was  talking  about  "  the  family"  at  the  Ab- 
bey. "The  family''  had  come  by  different  routes 
from  different  points  of  the  coni))ass.  Mr.  Pe- 
tersham, senior,  had  posted  from  town  bringing 
his  secretary  with  him  as  his  sole  companion. 
Lady  Caroline  Petersham  with  a  party  of  ladies, 
in  two  carriages,  had  come  from  Dover.  And 
as  late  as  twelve  o'clock  on  the  preceding  night, 
Mr.  Arthur  Byfield  Petersham  and  his  intimate 
friend,  Major  Watchit,  had  passed  through  the 
town  in  a  traveling  carriage  drawn  by  four  horses. 
Not  even  in  the  days  of  the  magnificent  Sir  Mar- 
maduke  Clare  had  more  posting  been  done,  and 
more  horses  used,  for  so  small  a  result.  Every 
one  was  delighted.  It  was  generally  anticipated 
that  there  would  be  forthwith  a  series  of  festivi- 
ties of  unprecedented  magnificence  at  the  Abbey ; 
but  Mr.  Gurley  told  me  in  confidence  that  such 
would  not  be  the  case.  Mr.  Petersham,  senior, 
intended  to  return  to  town  at  the  end  of  the 
week,  after  two  or  three  days'  shooting;  and  it 
was  the  intrntion  of  the  other  di^inguished  jier-  • 
soiiages  to  live  as  much  as  possible  in  retire- J 
11  lent. 

Tlie  next  Sunday  showed  that  Mr.  Gurley  was 
right. 

Tiie  first  persons  to  enter  the  church  for  the 
morning's  service  were  the  members  of  the  Ab- 
bey family.  The  Butterworth  carriage  blocked 
lip"  the  gateway  of  the  church-yard  as  usual,  and 
v,as  siu-roiinde'd  by  a  larger  assemblage  than  or- 
dinarv  of  sjiectators,  who  were  in  their  hearts 
looking  out  for  the  string  of  equipages  they  ex- 
]>('cted  to  arrive  from  the  Abbey.  They  were 
doomed  to  disappointment.  Etty  and  I,  with 
our  boarders  before  us,  i)assed  through  the  gate. 
]iunclual  to  our  customary  time,  but  perha])S  nut 
without  a  wish  that  the  Abbey  "family"  should 
arrive  at  the  .same  moment  with  ourselves;  and 
when  we  took  our  scats  in  the  gallery  and  looked 
duwn  into  the  body  of  the  church,  we  found  the 
Abbev  pew  already  occu])icd  by  two  ladies  and 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


53 


the  same  number  of  jjciitlemcn.  They  had  walk- 
ed over  the  park,  and  entered  the  ehurch,  unob- 
served, by  the  small  posturn  door. 

It  was  easy  to  see  which  was  Lady  Caroline 
f  Petersham  (for  JNIrs.  Gurley  wliisjiered  to  me  at 
the  foot  of  the  gallery  stairs  that  Lady  Caioline 
was  iu  ehureli).  A  tall,  comely  lady,  still  hand- 
some, inclined  to  fat  as  a  lady  of  her  aye  and 
high  rank  might  be  allowed  to  be,  richly  but 
plainly  dressed,  and  about  ten  or  fifteen  years 
younger  than  her  husband,  Mv.  Petersham,  sen- 
ior. 

Not  less  easy  was  it  to  distinguisli  the  rest  of 
the  party ;  for  I,  like  all  the  other  Laughton  peo- 
ple, was  familiar  with  their  names,  and  had  heard 
their  personal  characteristics  described  over  and 
over  again. 
'  The  other  lady  was  Miss  Dent,  Lady  Caro- 
line's companion,  a  plain  and  insignificant  little 
person  like  myself  I  made  up  my  mind  on  the 
spot  that  I  should  like  to  know  her. 
,  Major  Watchit  was  a  very  tall  and  attenuated 
man.  Standing  six  feet  and  two  inches,  he  look- 
ed even  taller  from  being  so  very  thin.  His  frame 
was  wiry  and  vigorous,  and  could  endure  any 
amount  of  fatigue  in  any  sort  of  climate ;  but  all 
the  same  for  that  it  struck  at  me  at  first — as  a 
mere  frame,  and  nothing  more — as  an  absolute 
Bkeleton.  He  might  be  five-and-thirty  years  of 
age,  but  he  was  of  just  that  appearance  that  I 
should  not  have  been  surprised  to  find  him  ten 
years  older,  or  ten  years  younger.  I  could  see 
where  the  muscles  of  his  tawny  visage  ran  into 
eaeh  other,  so  little  was  there  besides  bronzed 
skin  to  cover  them.  His  dark  hair  was  cropjied 
close  in  a  military  fashion,  and  the  black  mus- 
tache on  his  upper  lip  was  kept  down  by  scissors, 
so  that  it  did  not  stand  out  more  thaii  the  hairs 
of  his  eyebrow.  It  glistened,  however,  and  re- 
:  ally  was  not  much  unlike  a  piece  of  court-)ilas- 
,'  ter,  cut  into  the  shape  of  a  mustache.  His  fore- 
'  head  was  high  and  (though  brown)  of  a  lighter 

I  li'.ie  tiian  the  rest  of  his  face.  But  his  most  re- 
m.irkal>le  features  were  his  eyes.  Tiiey  were 
like  bird's  eyes — small,  round,  black,  prominent, 
eager,  restless,  suspicious.  Altogether,  INIajor 
Watchit  was  a  very  singular  persmiage  in  his 
appeai-ance,  and  when  I  first  saw  him,  although 

I I  was  in  church,  I  felt  inclined  to  laugh — or  at 
'Jea>t  to  smile. 

Bat  the  stranger  in  whom  the  congregation 
I  took  most  interest  was  Arthur  Byiield  Peter- 
,  shtim,  Esq.  I  will  describe  him,  not  only  as  he 
a;i])2ared  while  standing  in  the  Abbey  ]>cw,  but 
:  with  a  few  touches  derived  from  my  subsequent 
knowledge.  Standing  in  the  pew,  by  the  side 
of  Major  Watchit,  Mr.  Arthur  Byfield  Peter- 
sham had  the  appearance  of  a  mean  and  under- 
sized man  ;  but  he  was  just  five  feet  ten  inches 
higli,  and  was  not  ill-proportioned.  Physically 
he  was  altogether  inferior  to  his  fine  old  father; 
for,  besides  having  important  disfigurements  in 
a  very  freckled  complexion,  in  an  uneasy  nerv- 
ous action  of  the  eyelids  (which,  when  excited, 
he  twitched  close  and  open  in  a  very  uncomfort- 
able manner),  and  in  a  malformation  of  the  up- 
per lip  known  as  harelip,  which  surgical  treat- 
ment had  almost,  but  not  quite,  obliterated,  he 
had  not  that  frank  and  lofty  cxjiression  which 
one  likes  to  see  in  persons  put  in  authority.  Still 
he  was  not  altogether  without  claims  to  ](er.son- 
al  attraction.     He  was  a  peculiar-looking  man, 


and  to  be  that  is  .something.  His  flaxen  hair  he 
wore  long,  not  ciu-ling,  but  waving  over  the  vel- 
vet collar  of  his  blue  coat,  whicii  was  cut  high 
in  the  neck,  as  was  the  fashion  of  the  time.  His 
eyes  were  large  blue  ones,  neither  expressive  nor 
clear,  but  singularly  prominent,  seeming  almost 
to  look  down  out  of  their  sockets  uijon  the  scar 
of  his  upper  lip.  His  speech,  too,  was  not  in  his 
favor;  for  his  utterance,  though  it  did  not  lack 
cither  decision  or  earnestness,  had  a  slight  im- 
pediment. Yet  in  spite  of  his  drawbacks  there 
was,  or  (which  was  the  same  to  the  Laughton 
observer)  there  seemed  to  be.  a  style  about  him 
which  proclaimed  him  emijhatically  a  member 
of  the  upper  classes.  His  dress  was  alwaj's  well 
chosen,  and  faultless  in  its  finished  simplicity ; 
and  he  moved,  notwithstanding  an  ungraceful 
whole-footed  tread,  with  a  dignity  which  is  sel- 
dom found  in  men  of  inferior  appearance. 

I  try  to  ])aint  his  portrait  faithfully,  and  not 
to  color  it  with  the  aversion  which,  when  I  came 
to  know  him  thoroughly,  I  could  not  do  other- 
wise than  cherish  for  him. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  eyes  of  the  con- 
gregation were  fixed  on  the  Abbey  pew  more 
than  on  Ak".  Butterworth  and  his  curate  through- 
out the  service.  I  did  my  best  to  fix  my  atten- 
tion on  my  devotions,  but  curiosity  overpowered 
my  will,  and  my  eyes  continually  wandered  to 
the  "great  people." 

On  leaving  the  church,  after  the  dispersion 
of  the  congregation,  we  found  at  the  church-yard 
gate  a  little  pony-carriage,  drawn  by  one  Shet- 
land pony,  for  the  accommodation  of  Lady  Car- 
oline Petersham  and  Miss  Dent ;  but  the  gen- 
tlemen, after  handing  the  ladies  into  this  mod- 
est vehicle,  turned  into  the  park  on  foot. 

"Well,  I  like  that,  my  dears,"  observed  Mrs. 
Gurley,  bustling  up  to  us  as  we  entered  '  The 
Cottage'  garden,  "  I  like  the  absence  of  display 
in  really  grand  peo]jle.  It  ought  to  be  a  lesson 
to  the  Butterworths ;  but,  bless  you,  my  dear, 
they  won't  profit  by  it." 

If  Mrs.  Gurley  ever  displayed  any  asperity  of 
temper  it  broke  forth  in  her  criticisms  of  the 
Butterworth  grandeur. 

"And  you  observed,  my  dear,"  continued  the 
lady,  detaining  me,  and  letting  Etty  proceed  with 
the  children,  "how  Mr.  Petersham  and  Major 
Watchit  looked  at  Etty  as  she  left  the  church?" 

"Indeed,  no.  Surely  they  could  not  have 
been  so  impertinent,"  I  answered,  hotly.  "You 
must  be  mistaken,  Mrs.  Gurley." 

"Mistaken!  Bless  you,  my  dear,  I'm  never 
mistaken — never  was  mistaken  in  all  my  life, 
save  when  I  thought  you  weren't  as  nice  a  girl 
as  your  sister.  And  that  blunder  only  lasted 
during  the  first  five  minutes  after  Gurley  intro- 
duced me  to  both  of  you.  Take  my  word  for  it, 
both  the  gentlemen  were  very  much  struck  with 
Etty." 

"  1  trust  not." 

"  Lor',  my  dear,  don't  say  tliat ;  for  ])erhaps 
you'll  be  invited  to  the  Abbey,  and  if  you  don't 
care  about  that  it'll  be  as  good  as  a  finishing  ed- 
ucation to  Etti/  to  see  a  little  high  society." 

.Mrs.  Gurley  said  no  more ;  but  as  I  hastened 
through  my  toilet  for  dinner,  and  as  I  carved 
for  the  children,  I  recalled  her  words,  and  saw 
no  reason  why  I  should  dislike  them. 

During  the  next  ten  days  we  saw  nothing 
more  of  "the  family"  save  a  repetition  of  the 


54 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


Sunday's  Qntcrtainnicnt  already  described,  and 
two  or  three  glinijises  of  Lady  Caroline  as  her 
carriage  drove  tiirough  the  town,  and  as  many 
observations  of  the  gentlemen  as  they  walked  or 
drove  out  to  their  shooting.  The  Butterworths 
jf  coarse  made  an  early  call  at  the  Abbey,  and 
Ladj  Caroline  i)romj)tly  returned  their  visit.  We 
observed  also  the  carriages  of  the  leading  aris- 
tocracy and  gentry  of  the  district  rolling  through 
the  ])ark  to  tiie  Abbey,  and  we  presumed  that 
Lady  Caroline's  drives  took  her  about  the  coun- 
try to  return  these  calls.  But  the  news  and  gos- 
sip about  the  new-comers  was  by  no  means  so 
exciting  as  had  been  anticipated. 

On  the  eleventh  day,  however,  as  I  was  prac- 
ticing np  a  piece  of  music  on  our  new  cottage- 
piano,  which  was  the  grand  article  of  furniture 
in  our  little  drawing-room,  who  should  be  sliown 
into  the  apartment  but  Lady  Caroline  Peter- 
sham herself!  I  was  alone  at  the  time  of  her 
irruption,  Etty  being  then  on  ]jlay-hours'  duty  in 
the  school-room. 

"Please,  Miss,  here's  a  lady,"  was  the  curt  an- 
nouncement of  my  maid,  who,  in  spite  of  Mrs. 
Gurley's  assiduous  instructions,  was  only  slowly 
mastering  the  elements  of  polite  servitude. 

Luckily,  however,  an  awkwardness  of  that 
kind  never  put  me  out ;  and  even  if  I  had  lost 
my  countenance,  Lady  Caroline  would  soon 
have  restored  it.  I  found  her  a  charming  old 
lady. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Tree,"  she  said,  com- 
mencing the  conversation,  and  taking  it  for 
granted  that  I  knew  who  she  was,  "I  am  very 
pleased  to  make  j'our  acquaintance.  I  didn't 
tell  the  girl  my  name,  for  I  thought  it  might 
frighten  her.  It's  such  a  sweet  day  that  I  am 
taking  a  long  walk.  There's  nothing  like  walk- 
ing for  the  health,  and  nothing  like  health  for  a 
good  complexion.  You  young  ladies  should  re- 
member that.  It  doesn't  matter  what  kind  of 
complexion  an  old  woman  like  me  has." 

I  answered  that  I  was  a  great  walker,  and 
found  the  park  an  admirable  lield  for  my  favor- 
ite exercise. 

"Well,  I've  fairly  walked  myself  tired;  so  I 
thought  I'd  ask  you  to  give  me  a  rest  and  a 
glass  of  water  before  setting  out  again,"  contin- 
ued the  lady,  falling  back  comfortably  on  my 
sofa,  as  if  she  had  known  me  and  it  for  years. 
"So  you  are  practicing.  That's  right — for  you 
are  a  teacher.  Did  you  make  that  crayon  sketch 
of  sja-coast,  my  dear?" 

I  answered  in  the  affirmative  to  this  question, 
when  I  had  rung  for  the  water. 

"And  capitally  done  it  is  too,"  continued  my 
visitor.  "  NVhy,  my  dear,  you  have  a  great  deal 
of  talent!  You  must  be  a  positive  acquisition 
to  this  little  town.  You  jilayed  the  organ  beau- 
tifully last  Sunday,  and  so  did  your  sister  the 
Sunday  ])elore.  Arc  you  not  going  to  let  me 
see  her?" 

"Tell  Miss  Annette  that  a  lady  is  here  who 
would  like  to  see  her,"  I  said  to  the  maid,  wlio 
brought  in  the  cold  water  and  tumliler. 

"  Tliank  you,  my  dear,  for  waiting  on  mc  so 
prettily,"  the  old  lady  next  said,  as  she  received 
the  tumbler  from  my  hand  and  took  a  hearty 
draught.  "  Cold  water  is  one  of  my  best  friends 
— a  much  better  friend  it  is,  too,  tlian  many  ^vll() 
profess  to  be  warmer.  And  your  sister  is  called 
Annette,  is  she?     A  very  pretty  name!" 


"I  always  call  her  'Etty,'  Indeed  she  was 
always  called  'Etty'  till  we  came  here." 

"I  like  that  better  still,  and  if  I  like  her,  my 
dear,  I'll  call  her  Etty  too.  Once  on  a  time  ev- 
ery one  called  me  'Carry.'  But  now  no  one 
save  my  good  oid  gray-headed  husband  would 
think  of  calling  me  '  Carry.'  Ah  !  my  dear,  one 
of  the  saddest  und  surest  signs  that  a  woman  is 
growing  old  is  the  gradual  diminution  of  the 
nura.ber  of  people  who  call  her  by  a  short  ]>ct 
name!" 

I  had  just  time  to  explain  that  Etty  was  then 
in  the  school-room,  amusing  and  sujierintcnding 
our  pupils  during  j)lay-hours,  when  the  dear  girl 
entered,  sliglitly  Hushed  with  excitement,  but  not 
at  all  nervous,  with  her  golden  linglets  failing 
upon  her  high  dress  of  black  merino,  and  lookv 
ing  as  lovely  as  I  ever  saw  her  in  n)y  life. 

"I  know  a  little  about  you,"  said  the  granj 
lady,  when  she  had  gone  on  chatting  for  a  tVw 
minutes  longer.  "When  I  asked  Miss  Argen- 
tine Butterworth  who  lived  in  this  jjretty  cot- 
tage, I  learned  from  her  that  you  were  cousina 
of  the  Clares  who  still  own  the  property  here." 

"Oh,  Lady  Caroline, "I  exclaimed  quickly — 
Etty  cordially  supporting  what  I  said  by  her 
looks — "you  mayn't  suppose  us  to  be  at  all 
closiely  connected  with  such  great  ))eople.  Sir 
Marmaduke  Clare  was  my  grandfather's  broth- 
er, but  we  have  never  known  any  thing  of  his 
descendants.  They  are  our  distant  cousins,  but 
Etty  and  I  never  saw  them  in  all  our  lives,  and 
never  entered  the  Abbey  save  as  members  of  the 
public,  by  paying  the  customary  fee  to  the  house- 
kee]jer." 

Our  visitor  looked  at  me  steadily,  and  paused 
for  nearly  a  minute  before  she  made  re]jly  in  the 
following  words — uttered  with  the  full  emphnsis 
of  deliberation,  and  an  increased  cordiality  of 
tone — "  My  dear  Miss  Tree,  you  show  singular 
good  taste,  and  some  courage,  in  telling  me  this 
so  frankly.  And  I  heartily  like  you  for  it.  It 
is  positively  refreshing  to  lind  two  young  women 
in  a  little  country  town  who're  above  pretension." 

"But  it's  the  simjjle  fact,  Lady  Caroline," 
Etty  and  I  both  exclaimed  together,  blushing 
with  surprise  and  pleasui-e. 

"My  pretty  bird  !"  retorted  the  old  lady,  look- 
ing at  Etty,  "simple  facts  are  just  the  facts  which 
foolish  ijcople  think  it  concerns  their  dignity  to 
keep  to  themselves.  Questionable  facts,  discred- 
itable facts,  they  often  make  ]jlenty  of  boasting 
of.  I  can't  bear  living  with  '  toadies,' whiuh  as- 
suming people  always  are.  Little  peojjle  in  the 
country  are  usually  insutferable,  because  they  are 
syco])liants  on  one  side  and  and)itious  jiretcnd- 
ers  on  tlie  other,  and  all  hollow  as  a  drum  in 
the  middle.  I  see,  my  dears,  we  shall  get  on  to- 
gether. If  you  don't  greatly  object  to  the  socie- 
ty of  a  humdrum  old  woman,  you  must  come  to 
the  Abljcy  and, see  me." 

Of  course  Etty  and  I  said  we  should  be  de- 
lighted to  accept  her  invitations. 

Before  our  visitor  went  she  had  induced  us  to 
show  her  all  over  the  house.  She  walked  into 
the  school -room,  gossiping  to  the  children  and 
])attiug  them  on  the  head  by  turns.  She  climbed 
our  narrow  staircase,  and  declared  herself  im- 
mensely delighted  with  tiie  children's  little  bed- 
rooms, and  their  wee  beds  with  white  curtains 
trimmed  with  pink. 

"My  dears,"  she  said,  when  the  inspection 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


55 


was  completed,  "I  have  a  fjreat  deal  of  money, 
wiiich  of  course,  like  all  other  rich  pcoi)le,  I  am 
very  proud  of,  but  I'd  give  you  every  penny  of  it 
if  you  would  make  mo  a  little  girl  again  and 
take  me  into  your  scliool.  But  I  must  be  trot- 
ting home,  for  I  have  letters  to  write." 

She  sliook  hands  heartily  with  me. 

"  I  must  have  a  kiss  from  you,  my  dear,"  she 
said  to  Etty,  as  if  she  were  asking  a  favor. 

The  simplicity  witli  which  she  bade  us  fare- 
well in  these  different  fashions  tickled  me  im- 
mensely, and  she  saw  my  amusement  in  my  eyes. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Tibby,"  she  said,  with 
animation  (for  the  first  time  using  my  short 
name,  which  she  had  caught  up),  "  you  see  I'm 
no  flatterer,  after  all.  I  prefer  a  /dss  from  Etty, 
but  I  think  that  I  would  rather  have  you  for  a 
/riend." 

When  Blrs.  Gurley  called  upon  ns  at  the  close 
of  the  day,  and  was  entertained  with  a  recital 
of  the  events  of  the  morning,  I  jdeased  her  very 
much  by  saying  that  she  and  Lady  Caroline  Pe- 
tersham strongly  resembled  each  other  in  man- 
ner and  style,  though  not  in  ai)pearance.  And 
this  was  indeed  the  case.  Mrs.  Gurley  was  only 
a  wealthy  farmer's  daughter,  and  had  never  seen 
better  society  than  that  afforded  her  by  the  little 
country  town  in  which  we  dwelt ;  and  yet  her 
manner  put  rae  in  mind  of  Lady  Caroline,  the 
daugiuer  of  an  earl,  tlic  wife  of  one  of  the  wealth- 
iest commoners  of  England,  and  a  lady  who  had 
passed  a  long  life  in  the  higliest  and  most  refined 
circles  of  the  aristocracy.  The  key  to  the  mys- 
tery I  found  in  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Gurley  was 
constitutionally  a  very  amiable  and  unselfish  wo- 
man, whose  chief  hapi)iness  lay  in  creating  en- 
joyment for  others ;  wliile  Lady  Caroline  Peter- 
sham (I  don't  pretend  to  speak  positively  about 
her  qualities  of  temper)  had  grown  old  among 
people  possessed  of  too  much  good  taste  to  wear 
their  worst  characteristics  on  the  outside,  as  per- 
sons of  less  refinement  are  apt  to  do.  In  youth 
and  in  her  prime  of  life  to  please  had  been  with 
her  a  favorite  art,  until  in  old  age  the  art  had 
become  a  habit.  Since  my  residence  in  Laugh- 
ton  I  have  seen  as  much  of  the  world  as  most 
quiet  English  women,  who  prefer  domestic  pri- 
vacy to  a  more  public  and  diversified  life  ;  and 
I  have  had  occasion  more  than  once  to  remark 
ladies  of  humble  origin  and  impeifect  culture, 
who  were  ambitious  of  achieving  a  distinguished 
style  and  passing  for  great  people,  and  who,  not- 
withstanding their  considerable  natural  endow- 
ments and  graces,  failed  to  accomplish  their  ob- 
ject, simply  because  they  could  neither  be  nor 
seem  to  be  forgetful  of  themselves  and  thought- 
ful for  others.  "Ah,  my  dear  ladies,"  I  have 
thought,  "good  Mrs.  Gurley,  the  attorney's  wife 
of  Laughton,  could  have  given  you  a  lesson." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A    GAME    OF    BOWLS. 

The  Petershams  were  at  Laughton  for  two 
montlis,  during  which  time  numerous  parties  of 
friends  came  and  went,  none  of  them  appearing 
to  stay  for  more- than  tin-ee  or  four  days.  Mr. 
Petersham,  senior,  did  not  renew  his  visit,  but 
Lady  Caroline  remained  at  the  head  of  her  son's 
establisiiment  throughout  tiie  entire  two  montlis ; 


which  last  fact  rather  surprised  me,  for  she  spoke 
as  if  slie  lived  on  the  most  afVoctionate  terms  with 
her  husband.  Siie  was  continually  alluding  to 
him  as  "her  dear  old  man,"  and  yet  she  was 
well  content  to  be  away  from  him  for  two  months 
at  a  time.  Use  reconciles  people  to  queer  and 
uncomfortable  arrangements ;  but  I  did  not  think 
that  if  1  had  had  a  luisband  who  dearly  loved 
me  I  should  like  to  be  so  long  away  from  him. 

Altogether  Etty  and  1  jiaid  seven  distinct  vis- 
its to  Lady  Caroline.  Twice  we  went  togetlicr, 
Mrs.  Gurley  kindly  taking  care  of  our  boarders 
on  the  half-holidays,  when  we  were  at  the  Ab- 
bey; but  on  the  other  occasions  we  went  sepa- 
rately, I  on  one  day,  Etty  on  another. 

Lady  Caroline  Petersham  certainly  liked  our 
society,  for  site  would  send  or  come  for  us  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  take  us  home  with  her  to 
lunch,  and  not  let  us  return  till  ten  o'clock  at 
night.  They  never  had  visitors  in  the  house 
when  we  came,  and  her  ladyship  frankly  told 
me  the  reason  why.  "It  doesn't  at  all  follow, 
my  dear,"  she  said,  "that  because  I  like  yon 
the  people  who  come  to  see  me  would  do  the 
same  ;  and  if  they  didn't,  they'd  be  sure  to  re- 
sent your  presence  as  a  kind  of  affront.  It's  no 
use  trying  to  force  people  of  different  ranks  of 
life  together.  If  they  like  each  other,  and  choose 
to  overstep  the  boundaries  between  them,  by  all 
means  let  them  ;  but  if  I  tried  to  thrust  you  on 
other  people's  prejudices,  I  should  only  be  sub- 
jecting yoii  to  a  risk  of  pain.  So  it'll  be  best 
for  us  to  enjoy  each  other's  society  when  we  are 
by  ourselves,  and  at  full  liberty  to  do  as  we 
please." 

"  St.  Luke's  little  summer"  was  very  fine  that 
October,  and  lasted  so  long  that  day  after  day 
we  had  to  express  our  astonishment  at,  and  con- 
gratulate ourselves  upon,  the  warmth  and  seren- 
ity of  the  weatlier.  Five  of  our  Abbey  visits 
were  made  during  its  sunny  brightness,  and  we 
were  able  to  pass  the  time  on  those  occasions, 
between  lunch  and  dinner,  out  of  doors.  Mr. 
Petersham  and  Major  Watchit  paid  us  the  com- 
pliment of  returning  from  their  shooting  early, 
so  that  they  might  play  bowls  with  us  in  the 
bowling-green.  Those  afternoons  were  there 
very  pleasant.  Lady  Caroline  occupied  an  easy 
chair  and  table,  jjlaced  in  a  warm  nook  of  the 
high  l)ox-tree  wall  (which  London  and  Wise, 
the  "heroic  poets"  of  the  topiary  art,  as  Addi- 
son termed  them  in  the  Spectator,  had  arranged 
on  a  scale  and  fashion  of  "absurd  magnifi- 
cence"), and  busied  hei-self  with  her  letters  or 
fancy  netting,  while  Etty  and  I  and  the  two  gen- 
tlemen played  bowls.  I  was  almost  always  on 
Major  Watchit's  side,  and  Etty  with  our  oppo- 
nent. 

Major  Watchit  and  I  always  won,  not  by  luck, 
but  by  good  i>lay,  for  the  major  was  a  consum- 
mate master  of  games  of  all  sorts.  He  was  re- 
ally a  very  singular  and  out-of-the-way  person. 
In  my  eyes  his  exterior  remained  just  as  ludi- 
crous as  when  I  first  saw  him,  and  yet  I  could 
not  do  otherwise  than  recognize  in  him  a  vast 
amount  of  power.  He  was  the  most  taciturn 
man  I  ever  met  in  my  life  ;  I  really  am  not  ex- 
aggerating this  peculiarity  of  his  when  I  say  that 
ten  words  exceeded  the  average  sura  of  his  ut- 
terances per  hour  when  he  was  most  animated 
by  the  presence  of  congenial  companions.  He 
stood  straight  up  in  his  rigid  lankiness,  grace- 


66 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


less  lis  a  ]am]i-iiost,  but  not  quite  so  perpendicu- 
lar ;  tor  the  stiuight  line  of  his  sinewy  body  ran 
in  such  a  manner  tliat  his  cadaverous  and  tawny 
visage  was  about  two  inclies  in  advance  of  his 
boots.  He  usually  had  a  half-silly  expression,  a 
gabyish  leer  on  his  mouth;  and  the  jjupils  of  his 
eyes  always  seemed  its  if  they  would  drop  out 
upon  you,  in  which  case  you  ex])ected  to  find 
tliem  notiiing  but  beads  of  polished  ebony. 
Wlien  he  and  Mr.  Tetersliam  used  to  toss  for 
jiartners,  and  he  had  won  me  (I  played  better 
than  Etty,  otherwise  the  tossing  would  have  had 
a  different  result),  he  only  pointed  to  Mr.  Teter- 
sliam  and  Etty,  thus  saving  his  word.«,  while  he 
indicated  that  Etty  and  his  friend  were  to  op- 
pose us.  It  was  not  till  the  moment  for  action 
came  that  it  was  manifest  he  had  something  in 
him.  He  and  Mr.  retersliam  wore  both  fond 
of  athletic  sports  and  games  of  chance  ;  but  at 
every  trial  of  strength,  fortune,  or  skill  he  was 
the  winner.  When  they  returned  from  shoot- 
ing and  reported  their  aciiievemcnts,  the  major's 
score  of  heads  of  game  bagged  always  greatly 
exceeded  his  friend's.  We  saw  them  play  at 
*'  fives" — when  directly  the  game  began,  the 
long,  wiry  limbs  of  the  soldier  leaped  about  with 
most  surprising  agility ;  and  wherever  the  ball 
fell  it  rose  into  his  hand,  and  was  sent  by  a  firm 
stroke  flying  against  the  wall  like  a  shot.  Mr. 
rctersham  had  only  to  look  on  for  more  than  half 
the  time,  and,  turning  to  us,  say,  '•  W-won-der- 
fiil  f-fellow !  D-did  y-you  ever  see  such  a  fel- 
low, Miss  Tree?"  stammering  slightly  at  the  be- 
ginning of  his  sentences,  according  to  his  wont. 
At  billiards  it  wcis  just  the  same.  jNIr.  Peter- 
sham showed  us  a  superb  horse  in  his  stables, 
which  had  just  arrived  from  town  in  a  van.  It 
was  so  ferocious  that  neitiier  he  nor  his  men 
could  even  mount  it.  "  What  are  you  going  to 
do  with  it  here  then,  Mr.  rctersham  ?"  I  asked. 
"Oh,  Watchit  is  going  to  break  him  in,"  was 
the  anrver;  and  that  JIajor  Watchit  should  be 
unable  to  reduce  the  beast  to  submission  was 
clearly,  in  Mr.  Petersham's  estimation,  a  contin- 
gency that  did  not  require  consideration. 

After  playing  bowls  for  ati  hour  and  a  half, 
on  the  occasion  of  our  first  visit  to  the  Abbey, 
we  desisted  from  the  game,  when  Mr.  Petersham 
said,  "N-now,  W- Watchit,  h-how  much  do  I 
owe  you?  Let's  see,  how  many  games  have  I 
lost?"  The  two  gentlemen  always  ])layed  for 
money,  in  which  resjieet,  of  course,  Etty  and  I 
did  not  follow  their  example. 

To  save  himself  the  labor  of  talking,  the  ma- 
jor took  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which  he  had  kejit 
the  score,  out  of  his  pocket,  and  put  it  into  his 
questioner's  hand. 

"T-then  t-there's  the  money,  Watchit,"  an- 
swered Mr.  Petersham,  looking  at  the  result, 
marked  on  the  paper,  and  giving  his  friend  three 
sovereigns,  which  were  received  and  jioeketed 
without  a  word. 

"  W-what  1-luck  you  have,  man.  I  w-wish 
I  had  your  luck.      St-siill,  I  don't  com])hiin." 

"Which  would  you  rather  have,  luck  or  mon- 
ey. Major  Watchit?"  incjuireil  Lady  Caroline, 
putting  her  netting  away,  anil  asking  the  ques- 
tion, as  I  fancied,  in  order  that  we  niiglit  be 
amused  by  a  further  exhil)ition  of  the  major's 
)K'culiarities. 

Major  Watchit  answered  by  taking  the  money 
he  haxi  just  won  out  of  his  waistcoat  jiocket,  anil 


I  looking  at  it  significantly,  without  uttering  a 
word. 

I      "Ay :  but,  my  dear  mute,  how  am  I  to  inter- 

I  pret  your    dumb  show?"  said   Lady   Caroline. 

"Do  you  show  the  gold  ])ieces  to  inqily  that  you 

prefer  'money?'  or  that  you  prefer  'luck' which 

is  able  to  win  money?" 

Major  Watchit  looked  perplexed  and  trou- 
bled, as  though  he  saw  ho  way  by  which  he 
could  avoid  using  his  tongue.  At  length  he 
said,  "Ask  Petersham,  he's  a  banker." 

"H-he  m-means,"  struck  in  Arthur  Byfield 
Petersham,  with  a  flush  springing  into  his' face, 
and  a  new  animation  appearing  in  his  dull  blue 
eyes,  "  that  money  and  luck  are  so  closely  allied 
to  each  other,  that  it  is  difficult  to  discern  some- 
times where  the  one  ends  and  the  other  begins. 
T-they  ar-re  doubly  related  to  each  other,  as 
cause  and  effect,  acting  and  reacting  on  each 
other,  luck  bringing  money  to  the  poor  man,  and 
money  giving  luck  to  the  rich  man,  so  that  he 
can  add  more  to  what  he  has  already.  L-luck 
and  m-money  arc  the  two  greatest  powers  in  the 
universe !  They  rule  society,  govern  countries, 
shape  the  destiny  of  nations,  and  comprise  every 
source  of  pleasure  that  makes  life  worth  having. 
T-taken  s-separately  each  is  a  divine  power,  but 
money  is  the  greater.  M-money  i-is  omnipo- 
tent— it  is  concentrated  success:  it  is  toil  of 
brain  and  body,  fear,  hope,  triumph,  and  every 
passion  of  the  human  mind;  it  is  the  true  poet- 
ry of  existence,  reduced  by  a  wonderful  process 
(compared  A\ith  which  the  dreams  of  alchemy 
arc  without  a  charm)  to  such  a  form  that  its  ])0s- 
sessor  can  enjoy  their  fruits  and  their  sweetness 
without  any  counterbalancing  sorrow.  M-mon- 
ey is  omnipotent,  every  thing  bends  before  it. 
I-it  r-raises  the  serf  to  be  the  companion  of 
princes,  presents  old  age  with  the  love  that  youth 
]jines  for  and  is  not  jjcrmitted  to  reach — it  even 
takes  away  the  terrors  of  death.  H-how  m-many 
sinners  on  their  death-beds  have  escaped  the 
pangs  of  a  stricken  conscience,  and  made — at 
least  believed  tliey  made — their  peace  with  God 
by  money!  Oh  give  me  money!  It  is  the  true 
nectar  of  the  gods.  Bnt  still  it  passes  away  with- 
out luck,  and  can  not  without  luck  be  amassed 
in  j)rodigious  quantities.  Give  me  them  both, 
then — first  the  grand  source  of  enjoyment,  and 
then  the  ])owers  which  create  and  gtuird  the 
means  of  enjoyment.  Sages,  and  moralists,  and 
piiests  may  toll  you  what  they  will,  but  the  i)os- 
session  of  the  greatest  conceivable  amount  of 
good-fortune,  united  with  the  greatest  conceiva- 
l)lc  amount  of  money,  constiiutcs  the  grandest 
ideal  of  hajjijiness  wliich  our  limited  mental  ca- 
jiacities  can  entertain." 

This  extravagant  s])cecli  was  intended  to  be 
received  as  burlescpie,  and  it  was  commenced  in 
a  tone  of  subdued  mockery;  but  the  vehemence 
of  tiie  speaker's  feelings  completely  carried  him 
fix)m  his  original  inteiiiion  of  concealing  his  true 
character  under  an  assumption  of  irony.  He 
held  himself  erect,  wilh  an  expanded  chest,  and 
with  something  of  a  defiant  look  in  his  face,  as, 
without  pause  or  hesitation  of  any  kind,  he  ut- 
tered the  concluding  words. 

Etty  and  1  were  as  astonished  as  Lady  Caro- 
line was  amused  at  this  outburst. 

"What  that  man  has  said  is  as  true  as  Gos- 
j)el  or  I'rophecy,"  observed  Major  Watchit  'de- 
liberately, in  a  small,  clear,  and  musical  voice. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


57 


The  words  caused  Etty  and  mc  a  start  and  a 
smile,  (ov  tliey  were  so  conlidently  and  daintily 
littered,  and  we  had  not  bet'ore  had  such  a  flow 
of  eloquence  from  their  sjjeaker. 

•'  Nay,  nay,"  said  Lady  Caroline,  looking  slily 
at  us,  and  jiroudly  at  "her  l>oi/,"  as  she  called 
Mr.  Petersham,  "he  is  neither  evangelist  nor 
prophet — he's  only  a  banker's  son." 

After  dinner  (which  I  tlioroughly  enjoyed,  be- 
cause the  courses  and  dishes,  und  ornaments  of 
glass  and  plate,  were  for  the  most  part  as  new 
to  me  as  the  mode  of  waiting  adopted  by  the  tall 
footmen)  we  spent  an  hour  or  two  in  the  music- 
room.  Both  Mr.  Petersham  and  the  Major  were 
accomplished  musicians,  understanding  music 
as  a  science,  and  having  a  perfect  artistic  com- 
mand of  a  variety  of  instruments.  Etty  and  I 
soon  found  ourselves  scarcely  fit  to  accomijany 
them  in  the  most  unpretending  pieces  ;  but  they, 
with  good-breeding  ami  happy  tact,  discovered 
in  a  trice  what  we  could  do  best,  and  encour- 
aged us  to  do  that. 

"Watchit,  you  don't  talk,  but  you  can  sing," 
observed  Mr.  Petersham,  when  we  had  gone 
through  several  instrumental  pieces. 

Having  looked  at  us,  and  received  an  assur- 
ance that  we  should  listen  to  him  with  pleasure, 
the  taciturn  soldier  seated  himself  at  a  ])iano — 
looking,  if  such  a  thing  be  jjossible,  rather  more 
awkward  than  men  usually  look  at  that  instru- 
ment, and  sang  two  or  three  of  Moore's  Melo- 
dies with  singular  judgment  and  e.xcpiisite  feel- 
ing. That  done,  he  rose  from  the  music-stool 
and  stationed  himself  in  a  distant  corner  of  the 
room,  as  dumb  as  an  old  clock  that  has  not  been 
wound  up  for  years. 

At  ten  o'clock  we  put  on  our  cloaks  and  bon- 
nets, and  walked  home  in  the  moonlight,  tlie 
two  gentlemen  accompanying  us  across  the  park 
to  our  garden-gate,  and  our  maid  walking  a  lit- 
tle in  the  rear. 

."Etty,"  I  said,  as  soon  as  we  were  alone, 
"  they  are  very  accomplished  men.  Even  in 
London  they  must  be  very  remarkable  men. 
What  is  there  that  they  can't  do?  Tiiey  paint, 
they  are  musicians,  they  'have  traveled  every 
where,  they  talk  every  language  under  the  sun." 

"  Uo  they  indeed?"  retorted  Etty,  in  her  old, 
pert  way.  "For  my  part,  I  can't  say  much  for 
their  talking.  Why  ]Mr.  Petersham  can't  speak 
a  word  witiiout  stammering,  and  the  other  man 
is  little  short  of  dumb." 

"He  sings  beautifully,"  I  said,  feeling  it  my 
duty  to  defend  Major  Watchit  from  deprecia- 
tion ;  "and  for  my  part  I  like  him  quite  as  well 
AS  I  do  Mr.  Petersham." 

"As  ivell?"  answered  Etty,  throwing  up  her 
chin  ;  "I  should  think  so,  indeed.  Why  if  I 
had  to  marry  one  of  tliem,  I'd  rather  marry  Ma- 
jor Watchit  ten  times  than  his  friend  once." 

Somehow  these  words  grated  on  my  ears. 
Wliat  business  had  Etty  to  talk,  even  in  jest,  of 
marrying  any  man  but  Julian  ? 

"Alajor  Watchit  is  a  man  of  action,"  contin- 
ued Etty.  "  He  does  not  talk  with  words,  but 
deeds.  I  declare  'twas  mucli  lietter  to  observe 
him  silently  doing  first  one  thing  and  then  an- 
other— and  doing  every  tiling  he  attempted  in- 
comparal)ly — than  to  listen  to  the  ]iriggish,  self- 
satisfied  stammering  of  that  Mr.  Petersham." 

"  Why,  Etty  !"  I  exclaimed,  giving  expression 
to  my  astonishment. 


"Why,  Tibby!"she  returned,  mocking  mc. 
"But  what  I  tell  you  is  the  truth,  and  nothing 
either  more  or  less.  Have  you  ever  dreamed  or 
imagined  or  read  in  a  novel  of  such  purse-proud 
insolence?  Money!  Money!  Money!  The 
true  nectar  of  the  gods!  And  you  could  see 
he  meant  it.  I  declare  to  you,  Tibby,  tiie  man 
roused  my  venom,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  should  like 
to  teach  him  that  there  was  something  in  this 
world  more  powerful  than  the  mo.iey  he  is  so 
proud  of!" 

"  j\Ioney  is  very  ]wwcrful,  Etty.  I  think  you 
are  a  little  captious,"  I  returned. 

"True,  money  is  powerful,  but  so  are  other 
things." 

"What?" 

' '  Beauty — for  one. " 

"Tut,  child,  that  cant  last  many  years,  but 
money  nunj  endure  for  ages." 

"  I  was  not  talking  of  its  permanence,  but  its 
power." 

"AVell,  we  won't  argue  about  it;  good-night, 
dear!"  I  said,  lighting  my  candle. 

For  some  reast:)n  not  known  to  myself  I  didn't 
like  Etty  that  night.  She  was  in  such  a  strange, 
wayward  luinior.  I  felt  it  would  not  be  advisa- 
ble either  to  jiet  her  or  to  cosset  her,  so  I  kissed 
her  coldly  and  went  up  stairs  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

AVUY    THK    PETERSHAMS    DID    IT  ! 

Our  first  visit  to  Lady  Caroline  Petersham 
may  be  taken  by  the  reader  as  a  fair  sample  of 
our  entertainments  at  the  Abbey.  Miss  Dent  I 
saw  little  of;  and  for  the  reason  already  stated, 
there  were  never  any  other  visitors.  The  gen- 
tlemen, however,  were  always  tiiere,  amusing  us 
greatly,  and  otiering  us  all  those  attentions  which, 
as  long  as  the  world  remains  a  world,  will  be  al- 
ways acceptable  to  women.  They  usually  went 
to  their  shooting  or  returned  from  it  by  the  way 
of  our  cottage,  and  scarcely  a  day  passed  that 
they  did  not  ofi'er  us  some  delicate  civility.  They 
left  us  game  and  fruit  in  abundance,  always  tak- 
ing care  to  state  that  Lady  Caroline  sent  the 
jjresents.  That  lady  also  called  on  us  contin- 
ually, making  herself  almost  as  much  at  home 
in  our  cottage  as  if  it  belonged  to  her. 

Mrs.  Gurley  was  highly  triumphant  at  the  at- 
tentions paid  us  by  "the  family." 

"Didn't  I  tell  yon  so,  my  dear?"  the  kind 
woman  said  to  me.  "  I  was  sure  how  it  would 
be !  Bless  you,  they  may  be  great  people,  but 
such  a  beautiful  creature  as  Etty  doesn't  cross 
their  path  every  day !" 

I  had  no  objection  to  this  explanation  of  the 
kindness  of  "the  family,"  for  I  was  as  proud  of 
my  sister's  beauty  as  I  could  have  been  of  it  had 
it  been  my  own ;  and  as  to  any  danger  to  her 
from  its  being  the  object  of  admiration  at  the 
Abbey,  the  idea  was  simply  ridiculous.  We  had 
told  Lady  Caroline  all  about  Julian  Gowcr,  so 
that  she  and  her  .son  knew  as  well  as  I  did  that 
Etty  was  engaged.  And  even  if  she  had  been 
free  to  accept  any  new  matrimonial  overtures, 
the  Abbey  seemed  about  the  last  place  in  the 
world  where  she  had  any  chance  of  receiving 
them.  Mr.  Petersham  (we  knew  from  Lady 
Caroline  as  well  as  from  Mr.  Gurley)  was  to 


58 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


marry  Miss  Olive  Blake  in  the  course  of  the  next 
few  years;  ;ind  as  for  Mnjor  Watcliit — a  man 
who  never  spoke  more  tlian  ten  words  an  hour 
in  the  presence  of  a  lady  could  not  be  suspected 
of  wishing  to  win  her  licart. 

Moreover,  the  whole  nature  of  our  intercourse 
with  "the  family"  was  of  a  kind  that  forbade 
me  to  entertain  the  thought  tiiat  Etty's  beauty 
was  any  reason  why  wo  should  be  cautious  on 
the  subject  of  Lady  Caroline's  attentions.  The 
whole  case  was  such  a  simple  one.  She  was  a 
benevolent  old  lady,  who  having  taken  an  inter- 
est in  us,  found  an  amiable  jilcasure  in  ))rattling 
with  us  about  our  concerns  and  in  patronizing 
us.  The  course  of  a  few  weeks  also  showed  that 
she  desired  to  confer  substantial  benefit  on  us  as 
well  as  amusement. 

"My  dear  MissTibby,"  the  kind  old  lady  said, 
shortly  before  her  stay  at  Laughton  terminated, 
"  I'm  going  away  next  week ;  but  I  have  direct- 
ed the  gardener  to  keej)  yon  well  supplied  with 
fruit  and  cut  flowers,  and  also  to  set  some  of  his 
men  at  work,  from  time  to  time,  to  keep  your 
garden  in  order  for  you.  And  the  game-kce])er 
will  leave  you  some  game  every  week.  Arthur 
wished  me  to  settle  these  matters  for  him.  He 
said,  very  justly,  that  such  attentions  would  be 
more  agreeable  to  you  and  your  sister  if  yon 
knew  that  the  orders  had  been  given  to  the  serv- 
ants by  me.  Young  women  must  be  very  care- 
ful. And  it  would  never  do  for  us  to  set  the 
Laughton  busy-bodies  saying  that  Arthur  was 
paying  too  nmch  attention  to  you  and  your 
sister." 

"Really,  Lady  Caroline,"'  I  replied  to  this  ad- 
ditional jn'oof  of  kindness,  "I  don't  know  which 
to  admire  the  more — your  goodness  to  us,  or 
Mr.  Petersham's  delicate  thoughtfnlness." 

"That's  right,  my  dear;  I  like  your  grati- 
tude. It  makes  up  for  tlie  want  of  it  in  others 
to  whom  I've  tried  to  show  kindness,  and  got 
only  hard  words  for  my  ])ains.  And  surely  we, 
who  have  so  much  of  tlie  good  things  of  the 
world,  ought  to  be  considerate  for  others.  By- 
thc-hy,  my  dear,  Arthur  wished  mc  to  say  that, 
if  it  is  quite  convenient  for  you  to  receive  him 
to-morrow,  he  would  like  to  call  on  you  as  he 
goes  out  shooting,  to  talk  over  a  little  matter  of 
business." 

"  Indeed !  Of  course  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
him,"  1  answered. 

As  Lady  Caroline  left  without  ex]>laining 
what  the  "  little  matter  of  business"  might  be, 
Etty  and  I  were  in  great  excitement  for  the  rest 
of  the  day.  She  had  very  much  modified  her 
first  o])inion  of  Mr.  Arthur  Petersham.  What- 
ever faults  he  might  have,  and  however  false  a 
view  he  might  take  of  life  from  his  high  watch- 
tower  of  wealth,  he  had  displayed  so  much  true 
delicacy  to  us,  that  my  sister  eonUl  not  do  otli- 
erwisc  than  jiardon  his  arrogance,  and  think  fa- 
vorably of  him. 

The  next  morning  at  nine  o'clock  the  chief 
of  the  Abbey  keejiers  jjaused  before  our  garden 
with  a  shooting  ])ony,  covered  with  bags  for 
game;  and  whistling  two  beautiful  s|)orting  dogs 
to  his  feet,  he  waited  wiiih;  his  master  had  an 
interview  with  me. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Mr.  Petei"sham  had 
ever  been  in  our  house,  and  I  wms  ])leased  to  ob- 
Bcn'e  that,  although  he  was  evidently  quite  at 
his  case,  his  maimer  was  more  deferential  and 


formal  than  usual.  It  seemed  to  imply  that  ho 
esteemed  it  a  privilege  to  be  allowed  to  enter  my 
drawing-room. 

As  soon  as  our  first  greetings  were  over  he 
went  straight  to  his  "little  matter  of  business." 

"  A-although  I-I  have  no  daughters,"  he  said, 
"to  put  to  school.  Miss  Tree,  I  have  a  little 
ward  named  Amy  Reickart.  Iler  father  was  a 
Danish  merchant,  who  died  a  few  years  since, 
very  far  from  rich,  but  still  leaving  a  small  proi>- 
erty,  as  well  as  one  child,  behind  him.  Amy  is 
really  as  sweet  a  little  girl  for  .seven  years  of  age 
as  you  can  imagine.  The  object  of  my  visit  is 
to  learn  if  you  can  receive  her  among  your  pu- 
pHs.  My  mother  tells  me  you  have  still  one  va- 
cancy for  a  boarder." 

"I  can  receive  her,  Mr.  Petersham,"  I  an- 
swered, highly  delighted,  "  and  will  do  so  glad- 
ly. It  will  do  my  school  much  good  to  have  it 
known  that  your  ward  is  with  me." 

"  T-that  i-is  a  reason,"  he  answered,  in  his 
kindest  manner,  "for  me  to  feel  additional  sat- 
isfaction in  having  found  her  so  happy  a  home. 
I  do  not  wish  the  child  to  be  treated  in  any  way 
differently  from  the  rest  of  your  ])arty,  but  I  want 
you  to  take  the  entire  charge  of  her.  Of  course 
when  I  am  down  here  she  will  pay  us  frequent 
visits,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  in  any 
way  with  jniternal  duties  or  paternal  responsi- 
bilities. In  short,  I  want  you  to  take  care  of 
the  poor  little  orphan  just  as  if  she  were  a  sister 
of  your  own;  to  clothe  her,  teach  her,  and  rear 
her  without  reference  to  me  save  in  case  of  dan- 
gerous sickness.  This  will  be  a  grave  responsi- 
bility for  you,  and  one  you  must  be  jiaid  for  in 
an  exceptional  manner.  My  mother  tells  me 
that  your  charge  for  an  ordinary  pupil  is  £'65 
l)er  annum — a  sum,  I  must  say,  that  seems  to  me 
startlingly  little  for  such  advantages  as  you  give 
your  girls.  Now  will  you  take  my  ward  off  my 
hands  for  a  payment  of  £200  per  annum  ?  I 
make  this  offer  with  reference  to  her  fortune,  ^s 
well  as  your  services.  Were  she  richer,  I  should 
suggest  a  larger  sum." 

I  need  not  say  that  this  munificent  (as  it 
seemed  to  me)  proposition  was  prom}jtly  ac- 
cejjted. 

"I-I  t-thank  you,"  my  visitor  then  said,  ris- 
ing, with  an  air  of  relief.  "  Now  that  is  off  my 
mind.  You  must  excuse  me  for  entering  into 
tliese  matters  of  business.  But  as  a  business 
man  and  the  child's  guardian  I  felt  it  right  to 
do  so." 

He  then  left  my  drawing-room. 

The  next  time  he  had  an  interview  with  me 
there  alone  the  business  was  of  a  different  na- 
ture I  At  that  second  interview  I  stood  before 
him  —  with  sns])icion,  and  horror,  and  shame 
warring  witjiin  my  breast !  But  I  may  not  an- 
ticipate events.  My  story  must  be  told  as  it  was 
acted. 

I  attended  Mr.  Petersham  to  the  garden  ]iorch 
on  his  way  out,  and  admired  his  dogs,  which 
were  under  the  keeper's  care.  While  we  \'.ere 
doing  so  Etty  entered  the  garden  with  onr  little 
girls,  on  their  return  from  a  walk  before  morn- 
ing lessons. 

"  I-I  h-have  taken  the  liberty  to  call  on  your 
sister,  to  say  good-by  to  you  and  her,"  he  said, 
raising  his  hat.  "  I  leave  Laughton  in  a  day  or 
two,  and  shall  not,  in  all  probability,  be  at  the 
Abbey  till  the  partridges  are  ready  for  me  next 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


.69 


year.  Should  I,  however,  in  the  mean  time  find 
that  my  enj^agcmcnts  will  permit  me  to  alter  my 
determination,  the  reeollectiou  of  the  jileasant 
weeks  I  have  just  spent  will  certainly  bring  me 
down  sooner." 

The  manner  in  which  this  speech  was  made 
implied  that  the  pleasure  of  the  preceding  weeks 
had,  in  a  great  measure,  been  deri\'td  from  ns. 
Ettv  saw  tiie  compliment,  and  replied  to  it  by 
cortlially  shaking  hands  witli  our  new  ])atron, 
and  ex])ressing  a  hope  that  his  absence  from  tlic 
Abbey  would  not  be  as  long  as  he  threatened. 

Mr.  Petersham  left  us,  and  I  immediately 
communicated  to  Etty  the  nature  of  "  his  little 
matter  of  business." 

"What  a  nice,  kind  man  he  is!"  exclaimed 
Etty,  enthusiastically.  "  1  resolve,  Tibby,  from 
this  time  forth  never  to  judge  people  uncharita- 
bly. How  very  considerately  lie  managed  the 
business  !  Every  step  taken  in  it  by  him  has  ex- 
pressed his  respect  for  us  as  ladles  !  He  didn't 
come  to  Its  as  if  we  were  some  mere  ordinary 
country-town  schoolmistresses,  whose  business  it 
was  to  be  accessible  to  any  one  who  brought 
them  a  pupil ;  but  first  of  all  he  asked  Lady 
Caroline  to  ascertain  if  he  might  call  u]ion  us. 
That  done,  and  permission  being  granted  him  to 
come,  he  makes  his  munificent  ]iroposition;  not 
as  if  he  were  laying  us  under  a  heavy  and  eter- 
nal obligation  to  him,  but  as  if  he  were  receiv- 
ing a  favor  from  us.  He  arranges  it  all,  too, 
with  the  fewest  possible  words  and  no  fuss.  An 
ordinary  vulgar  man  would  have  told  me  all  he 
had  been  doing,  and  would  have  exacted  an  ex- 
pression of  gratitude  for  his  patronage ;  but  he 
never  even  alluded  to  the  subject,  lea\  ing  you  to 
communicate  the  good  news  to  me.  How  nice 
it  would  be  always  to  live  with  ijcople  who^rcat 
you  in  that  style!" 

I  was  amused  at  Etty's  change  of  tone  with 
regard  to  Mr.  Petersham.  But  she  was  quite 
right.  Mr.  Petersham  had  behaved  in  the  mat- 
ter with  the  delicacy  of  a  gentleman ;  and  it 
would  have  been  unworthy  in  Etty  not  to  have 
highly  apjjreciated  such  treatment,  and  been 
grateful  for  it.  So  I  supported  her  opinions 
cordially. 

That  we  were  going  to  receive  Mr.  Petersham's 
ward  into  our  school  was  a  jiiece  of  intelligence 
which  flew  through  the  town  like  lightning.  Im- 
mediately after  morning  school  I  tripped  across 
the  road  to  Mrs.  Gurley,  whose  house  almost 
adjoined  the  church-yard,  and  told  her  the  as- 
toimding  news.  That  amiable  lady's  congratu- 
lations were  as  hearty  as  her  surprise  was  intense. 
She  had  never  imagined  such  an  explanation  to 
the  flattering  attentions  with  which  "the  fami- 
ly" had  loaded  us.  How  foolish  it  had  been  in 
her  to  attribute  them  all  to  Eity's  beauty  !  Of 
course  she  was  a  very  lovely  girl,  but  it  was 
equally  clear  that  JNlr.  Petersiiam  and  Lady 
Caroline  did  not  want  to  buy  her  good  looks  for 
a  chimney  ornament.  It  was  all  so  ])lain  now 
that  she  could  never  all  through  her  life  forgive 
herself  for  not  having  seen  through  so  simple  a 
game.  The  case  was  just  this:  Lady  Caroline 
and  Mr.  Petersham  were  looking  out  for  an  un- 
exceptionable home  for  a  little  girl,  a  home  in 
which  she  would  be  really  well  cared  for  in  eve- 
ry respect,  a  home  in  which  she  would  be  secure 
of  a  happy  childhood,  and  in  which  they  could 
with  easy  consciences  leave  her,  thus  altogether 


freeing  themselves  from  an  irksome  responsibil- 
ity. Such  being  the  state  of  aff'airs,  the  lady 
and  gentleman  visit  Laughton  ;  and  the  lady, 
being  first  struck  by  the  i)ictures({ue  ajipearance 
of  a  cottage  ])ut  in  the  corner  of  her  son's  i)ark, 
inquires  who  may  inhabit  it.  The  answer  (made 
by  a  consequential  jjea-hen  of  a  woman  who 
should  be  nameless)  informs  the  lady  that  the 
cottage  is  occupied  by  two  young  ladies,  the  or- 
phan daughters  of  an  ofiicer  of  the  king's  army, 
the  grand-daughters  of  a  much-respected  bene- 
ficed clergyman,  and  the  distant  cousins  of  an 
old  county  family  who  still  are  the  legal  owners 
of  Laughton  Abbey,  and  that  the  said  young  la- 
dies keep  a  school.  Having  learned  thus  much, 
the  lady,  good-natured  no  doubt,  but  still  look- 
ing after  her  own  interests,  calls  at  the  cottage 
to  see  what  it  is  like  inside — whether  the  young 
ladies  are  as  superlative  young  ladies  as  is  re- 
])orted,  whether  the  school-room  is  a  cheerful 
one,  whether  the  bedrooms  are  bright,  and  fresh, 
and  airy.  Liking  what  she  sees  at  this  first  visit, 
the  lady  of  rank  calls  again  frequently,  at  all 
liours  and  seasons,  popping  suddenly  into  the 
school-room  without  rapping,  and  entering  un- 
announced while  dinner  is  on  the  table,  to  assure 
herself  that  every  thing  is  as  fair  as  it  seems,  that 
the  table  is  a  simple  and  wholesome  and  gener- 
ous one,  that  there  are  no  scholastic  pains  and 
penalties  kept  in  the  back-ground.  The  lady  of 
rank  then  has  the  two  schoolmistresses  up  to  the 
Abbey,  all  unconscious  of  the  real  object  of  the 
]K)liteness  offered  them,  and  induces  them  to  talk, 
and  play,  and  exhibit  their  accomplishments  be- 
fore two  observant,  scrutinizing,  and  polite  men 
of  the  world.  Well,  the  result  of  the  inspection 
is,  that  the  two  young  ladies  are  declared  fit 
guardians  and  teachers  for  a  young  lady  of  for- 
tune, and  that  the  young  lady  of  fortune  is  forth- 
with to  be  sent  to  them  ! 

Mrs.  Gurley  had  upbraided  herself  for  want 
of  sagacity  and  for  dullness  of  vision.  It  was 
now  my  place  to  applaud  her  acuteness  in  see- 
ing the  design  and  harmonious  entirety  of  a 
game,  of  which  I,  one  of  the  chief  players,  had 
seen  only  the  outward  self-evident  moves  and  the 
immediate  i-esult.  Certainly  Mrs.  Gurley's  in- 
terpretation was  not  agreeable  to  my  self-love. 
I  had  flattered  myself  that  Etty  and  I  were  in- 
vited to  the  Abbey,  to  afford  acceptable  recrea- 
tion to  our  distinguished  entertainers,  not  to  un- 
dergo examination  whether  or  no  we  were  la- 
dies. I  had  supposed  Lady  Caroline  visited  us 
because  she  liked  us — not  that  she  might  ascer- 
tain v.hcther  we  starved  our  pupils,  or  boxed 
their  ears,  when  no  one  was  looking  at  us.  I 
confess  jNIrs.  Gurley's  version  of  our  relations 
witli  the  great  people  at  the  Abbey  was  a  bitter 
draught  to  me ;  but  I  had  no  doubt  that  her 
shrewd  common  sense  had  led  her  to  the  truth. 

I  told  Etty  so  when  I  had  returned  to  the  cot- 
tage and  had  repeated  to  her  Mrs.  Gurley's  re- 
marks ;  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  derision, 
and  anger,  and  indignation  with  which  the  dear 
girl  received  my  statement  that  my  opinion  con- 
curred with  that  of  our  friend.  "I  never  in  all 
my  life,  Tibby,  heard  any  thing  so  ridiculous,  so 
insulting,  so  spiteful.  I  did  think  that  Mrs. 
Gurley  was  incapable  of  sucii  mean,  petty  spite 
as  to  put  such  uncomfortal)le,  and  degrading, 
and  irritating  notions  into  your  head.  It's 
enoutfh  to  make  me  sav  I'll  never  again  believe 


Co. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


ill  liuman  poodnoss.  1  had  thouf:;Vit  Mrs.  Gur- 
li\v  the  quinlessciice  of  benevolence,  incapable  of 
saying  an  uncharitable  thing,  and,  wliat's  more, 
I  iiad  thought  her  a  very  sensible  woman,  I)ut 
now  I  find  her  as  foolish  and  malevolent  as  the 
rest  of  the  world.  Just  because  she  hasn't  been 
asked  to  the  Abbey,  and  ive've  been  made  a  great 
deal  of  by  Lady  Caroline  Petersham,  she.  turns 
upon  us,  and  says  all  kinds  of  contcmjituous 
things  of  us;  and  my  own  sister  (and  there's  the 
sting — and  I  shall  never,  never  forget  it)  turns 
traitor  to  the  cause,  abandons  me  in  the  h(nir  of 
trial — and — and — oh,  Tibby  I  I  had  thouglit  bet- 
ter of  you  !" 

The  fact  is,  Etty  (usually  the  swectcst-tem- 
l)ered  girl  imaginable)  went  into  an  im])etuous 
sort  of  storm  that  very  closely  resembled  "  a  ]ias- 
sion."  But  she  did  look  so  proudly  beautiful — 
her  i)ink  lips  curved,  and  her  delicate  complex- 
ion brightened  up,  and  her  lithe  figure  rose,  and 
her  chest  heaved  and  drojjiied,  and  her  violet 
eyes  flashed,  and  she  threw  back  her  lung  neck, 
and  shook  her  golden  curls  at  me  in  such  a  man- 
ner that,  though  I  thought  her  very  f(jolish  to 
make  such  a  fuss  about  nothing,  I  thoroughly 
cnjox'cd  looking  at  her.  Still  I  could  not  let  her 
speak  in  that  way  of  our  best  friend,  Mrs.  Gur- 
ley.  I  reminded  her  of  all  the  kindness  Mrs. 
Gurley  had  shown  ns  and  all  the  care  she  had 
taken  of  us,  and  I  told  her  that  it  was  flagrant 
ingratitude  to  use  such  language  nnder  emotions 
of  resentment  toward  one  who  had  such  strong 
claims  on  our  love.  In  short,  I  gave  her  a  down- 
right good  scolding,  such  as  she  had  never  be- 
fore received  from  mc.  And,  to  my  great  de- 
light, my  s]jirited  conduct  brought  her  into  a 
very  different  frame  of  mind ;  for  she  had  a  good 
fit  of  crying,  and  then  made  a  cordial  recanta- 
tion of  all  the  worst  of  iier  charges  against  Mrs. 
Gurley.  "Well,  Tibl)V,"  .she  said,  "I  own  I 
was  in  the  wrong  to  talk  in  that  way  about  Jlrs. 
Gurley.  I  know  she  i»  quite  as  amiable  and  be- 
nevolent as  you  say,  and  I  am  sure  she  wouldn't, 
if  she  knew  it,  hurt  onr  feelings  or  those  of  any 
one  else.  But  it  is  so  scaldingly  indignation- 
raising,  Tibby,  to  be  told  ijiat  we  arc  not  ladies, 
and  not  fit  companions  for  those  banker-jicople 
who  have  hired  the  house  that  belongs  to  our 
cousins,  and  that  we  arc  nothing  better  than  the 
veriest  and  most  tumble-down  cheese-mongers." 

At  this  I  smiled,  and  suggested  that  Mrs.  Gur- 
ley had  never  hinted  that  in  tlie  ojiinion  of  L;idy 
Caroline  Petersham  we  were  "tumble-down 
cheese-mongers,"  but  two  ladies  "  keeping  a 
pchool  for  little  girls." 

"Well,  well,  Tiljbyl"  she  answered,  "I  ad- 
mit all  that,  and  I  have  retracted  all  the  unkind 
things  I  have  said  of  Mrs.  Gurley.  Only,  as  to 
the  main  point,  the  reason  why  Lady  Caroline 
Petersham  liked  iis  and  showed  us  attention,  she 
is  altogether  wrong.  She  has  simjily  fallen  into 
an  egregious  blunder,  and  dragged  yon  along 
with  her;  and  of  course  I  can  never  have  the 
same  high  esteem  for  .Mrs.  Gurley's  judgment  as 
I  had  before.     That  is  not  to  be  expected." 

The  dear  girl  uttered  these,  last  words  with 
such  a  magnificent  emphasis  that  I  almost  burst 
out  laughing;  and  imleed  I  should  have  done 
Ro  had  not  a  fear  of  rousing  her  again,  just  as 
siie  was  calming  down  so  nicely,  restrained  mc. 

In  the  evening,  when  .Mr.  Gnrhy  called  upon 
U8  to  otter  his  congratulations  on  our  good  luck, 


Etty  was  entirely  herself  again — having  quite  left 
her  transient  ill-temper  behind  her,  and  being 
quite  in  the  humor  to  look  on  the  substoritia/ i/ood 
of  Mr.  Petersham's  "little  matter  of  business," 
without  troubling  herself  about  the  purely  senti- 
mental considerations  attached  to  it. 

To  tell  the  truth,  onr  new  acquisition  had  al- 
ready removed  a  heavy  an.xiety  from  my  mind. 
It  was  true  that  our  school  had  succeeded;  but 
the  success  of  such  a  school  in  a  little  country 
town  was  so  slender  a  piece  of  good  fortune  that 
I  could  not  lean  on  it  with  confidence.  Our 
terms  were  necessaiiiy  very  low,  for  our  jiupils 
were  only  the  children  of  "country-town  gentle- 
folk ;"  and  I  had  already  had  experience  enough 
in  my  business  to  see  that,  however  economical 
I  might  be,  I  could  not,  even  with  my  school  al- 
ways full,  hope  to  lay  by  more  than~£30  per  an- 
num. The  only  margin  I  could  make  out  on 
jjaper  between  the  limits  of  our  greatest  possible 
income  and  its  least  jjossiblc  attendant  expenses 
was  £40  or  £45  a  }ear,  and  my  experience  as 
Iiousekceper  at  Farnliam  Cobb  had  tauglit  me 
that  a  surplus  hoped  for  is  always  materially  less 
than  the  surplus  attained  Under  the  most  fa- 
vorable circumstances.  Mine  is  by  no  means  a 
gloomy  or  despondent  tem])erament ;  but  the 
reverse  of  fortune  I  had  recently  sustained  had 
taught  me  to  look  beyond  the  sunshine  around 
me  to  the  probability  of  a  cloud  or  a  storm  ris- 
ing up  in  the  distance  and  coming  upon  ns.  In 
short,  I  had  an  nncomfortable  incredulity  in  the 
I'Crmanence  of  that  enviable  degree  of  worldly 
]iros])erity  which  Etty  and  I  had  achieved.  Some 
of  our  jjupils  might  leave  ns  before  we  had  oth- 
ers to  re]jlace  them.  Scarlatina  might  break  u]> 
onr  school,  and  deprive  ns  of  our  income  for  a 
quaiter  of  a  year.  Other  expenses  might  come 
u]ion  us.  In  case  of  a  series  of  misfortunes  ab- 
sorbing my  small  fund  of  reserved  money,  what 
should  we  do  ?  I  knew  Mr.  Gurley  and  Mr. 
Choate  wonld  be  ready  to  assist  us.  But  I  could 
not  endure  the  thought  of  taking  money  help 
from  them.  Etty's  elastic  s])irits  hajijiily  .se- 
cured her  from  a  single  gloomy  anticipation; 
and  of  course  I  was  careful  not  to  cloud  her 
clieeifulness  by  imposing  iqion  her  a  participa- 
tion in  my  business  anxiety.  She  was  so  yomig 
and  ardent,  I  could  not  think  of  depressing  her 
Avith  my  fears  about  money  matters.  And  now 
I  found  all  cause  for  anxiety  removed  from  my 
minil  I 

"My  dear  young  ladies,"'  said  our  business 
friend,  "you  must  raise  your  terms  immedi- 
ately." 

"  That  I  should  not  like  to  do,  Mr.  Gurley,"  I 
answered.  "It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  the  parents 
of  onr  old  pupils." 

"Of  course  you  mayn't  alter  your  terms  to 
old  ])upils;  but  you  are  jicrfectly  at  liberty  to 
say  how  much  more  you  mean  to  have  for  your 
new  ones.  Clap  £!'»  a  year  on  your  charge  for 
boarders,  and  £10  a  year  for  day-boarders.  For 
day-pupils,  who  don't  dine  with  you,  you  need 
make  no  alteration.  Don't  lose  any  time.  I'll 
have  a  new  pros]7Cctus  for  you  printed  immedi- 
ately. As  soon  as  it  gets  known  (and  that  won't 
be  many  days)  that  Mr.  Arthur  Byfield  Peter- 
sham has  jilaeed  his  ward  with  you,  you'll  have 
a  new  and  higher  cla.ss  of  peo])le  wishing  to  send 
you  their  children.  Make  them  ]iay,  my  dears 
— there's  nothing  like  it  for  making  peoi)le  re- 


I 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


61 


spect  you.  That's  what  I  always  say  to  myself, 
Miss  Tree,  when  I  draw  out  a  J)ill  of  eliarf^i^s — 
'The  moro  you  pay  me  for  my  law,  the  better 
opinion  you'll  have  of  its  quality.'  Thai's  what 
I  say  to  myself  when  I'm  nervous  about  tlie  size 
of  a  'sum  total.'  Whatever  you  charj;e,  my 
dears,  those  who  pay  you  won't  come  to  you  be- 
cause they  love  you,  but  because  they  want  what 
you  sell.  '  Take  my  advice.  I  am  a  business  man. 
Lord,  my  dears,  do  you  only  work  away  quietly 
here  for  a  few  years,  and  by  the  time  Julian 
Gower  is  ready  to  marry  Miss  Etty  she'll  have  a 
little  fortune  of  her  own.  How  say  you,  Miss 
Etty  ?  wouldn't  you  rather  enter  your  husband's 
house,  for  the  first  time,  with  £500  of  your  own 
than  go  to  him  empty  handed  ?" 

"Mr.  Gurley,"  I  said,  "poetry  and  business 
are  blended  in  you  as  surely  they  never  were  in 
any  man  before !" 

"Lor,  my  dear  Miss  Tree  V  he  answered,  with 
a  laugh,  evidently  much  pleased  with  my  com- 
plimentary speech,  ^'business,  looked  at  from 
a  right  point  of  view,  is  the  grandest  poctrij ; 
and  poetry,  looked  at  from  any  ])oint  of  view,  is 
sometimes  the  poorest,  sorriest  business  that  can 
be  imagined." 

All  my  scruples  fell  before  ^Nlr.  Gurley's  sug- 
gestion that,  in  endeavoring  to  earn  more  money 
and  save  more  money,  I  should  be  making  a 
purse  against  Etty's  wedding-day,  for  her  to  give 
to  Julian  Gower.  Five  hundred  pounds!  Why 
with  raised  terms  and  Mr.  Petersham's  ward  for 
a  pupil  we  might  lay  by  £200  a  year.  By  the 
end  of  five  years,  when  Julian  and  Etty  would 
marry,  we  should  have  £1000  at  least.  And 
Etty  sliould  have  the  whole  of  it  to  take  to  Ju- 
lian Gower!  And  wlien  she  was  married  I 
would  continue  to  live  in  my  quiet  cottage,  still 
keeping  school,  and  earning  fortunes  for  Ju- 
lian Gower's  children  I  This  was  my  life-plan 
taken  on  the  instant,  and  adhered  to  for  almost 
a  year. 

So  Mr.  Gurley  left  us.  with  ratthority  to  get 
our  new  business  prospectuses. 

His  judgment  was  not  at  fault.  A  week  did 
not  elapse  before  three  or  four  leading  jiersons, 
of  the  minor  landed  gentry  of  the  district,  had 
arranged  to  send  us  their  children.  Airs.  Sin- 
gleton Poppet,  of  Farley  House,  would  let  vis 
have  her  three  little  girls  as  day-pupils.  Farley 
Hous.i  was  only  four  miles  distant,  and  the  chil- 
dren would  b3  conveyed  to  and  fro  every  day  in 
the  Farley  House  carriage.  In  like  manner 
Mrs.  Jlirth,  of  Brierley  Paddock,  arranged  to 
send  us  a  carriage -load  of  her  children  every 
day. 

"Miss  Argentine  Buttorworth  mentioned  to 
me,"  observed  Mrs.  Mirth,  '•  that  she  had  been 
the  means  of  introducing  you  to  Lady  Caroline 
Petersham,  and  subsequently  of  securing  to  you 
for  a  pupil  Mr.  Petersham's  ward.  I  was  not 
at  all  surprised  to  hear  it.  Argcniine  Butter- 
worth  is  a  noble  creature.  That  sweet  girl  lit- 
erally overflows  with  amiability.  She  beams 
with  it.  Miss  Tree.  I  assure  you,  sheer  unadul- 
terated beneficence  sometimes  makes  Argentine 
Butterworth  absolutely  phosphorescent." 

Mrs.  Mirth,  of  Brierley  Paddock,  s])oke  in  a 
voice  and  style  evidently  copied  from  the  object 
of  her  admiration. 

"What  insufferable  impertinence !"  exclaimed 
Etty,  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Mirth  had  taken  her  leave. 


"  What  iiisufferat)le  impertinence  it  is  for  that 
Miss  Argentine  Butterworth  to  assume  and  pro- 
claim that  slie  is  our  benefactress  !" 

For  me,  I  was  in  no  humor  to  scold  about  a 
trifle  which  th(U-oughly  amused  me.  "Why 
what  docs  it  matter,  Etty?"  I  said.  "Look 
how  j)leasaiiily  tlie  sun  is  shining  in  the  garden! 
Let's  go  out  and  enjoy  it.  Miss  Argentine  But- 
terworth may  say  that  she  introduced  us  to  tho 
sun,  if  she  likes." 

"That's  right,  Tibby.  That's  how  I  ought  to 
feel,  but  I  don't.  I  can't  endure  these  little  gem 
teel  people.  I  should  like  just  for  nine  months 
or  a  year  to  be  put  at  the  head  of  society  intliis 
neighborhood,  over  the  Mrs.  Poppets  and  Mrs. 
Mirths  of  the  district,  with  their  Farley  Houses 
and  their  Brierley  Paddocks !  Wouldn't  I  rule 
tlieni  u-ith  a  rod  of  iron  !"  The  playful  affecta- 
tion of  vengeance  with  which  she  said  this  made 
me  receive  it  only  as  a  jest ;  but  had  I  then 
known  that  which  subsequently  came  to  my 
knowledge  I  should  have  seen  a  terrible  earn- 
estness lurking  under  her  merry  humor. 

Mr.  Gurley  was  of  course  well  pleased  that  his 
advice  had  been  followed,  and  J^et  more  j  leased 
that  our  interests  had  been  so  manifestly  ad- 
vanced by  its  adoption.  "Mr.  Petersham,"  the 
shrewd  solicitor  remarked  to  us,  shortly  after 
Amy  lleickart  and  our  other  hyper-gentcel  pu- 
]jils  had  come  to  us,  "  Mr.  Petersham  is  a  clever 
man  and  understands  the  world.  He  is  sure  of 
being  returned  our  member  if  he  should  like  to 
stand  for  Laughton  next  election.  By  simijly 
putting  his  ward  in  the  best  possible  home  he 
could  find  for  her,  and  i)aying  liberally  for  it,  ho 
has  made  himself  more  iwinilar  in  the  town  than 
he  coidd  have  made  himself  by  giving  us  towii.<- 
people  a  series  of  dinner-parties.  The  towu.-;- 
people  take  the  little  girl's  presence  here  as  a 
com])liment  to  themselves,  and  an  earnest  of  i"u- 
ture  favors  from  the  wealthy  banker.  Of  course 
I  don't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  JNIr.  Petersham 
in  taking  so  wise  a  stej)  was  actuated  by  motives 
of  policy.  But  this  1  know — the  step  has  se- 
cured him  a  seat  in  Parliament  (if  he  wishes  for 
it),  which  before  now  has  cost  a  successful  can- 
didate several  thousands  of  pounds." 

"Pooh!"  said  Etty,  tossing  up  her  head,  as 
soon  as  Mr.  Gurley  had  left  us.  "How  silly 
every  one  is  to  be  inventing  every  irrational 
and  utterly  impossible  reason  for  Mr.  Peter- 
sham's natural  conduct  in  putting  his  ward 
with  us !  Mr.  Gurley  has  caught  the  mad  fever 
of  his  wife,  and  now  he'll  run  about  the  eounirj' 
biting  every  one  who  comes  in  his  way !" 

IMr.  Gurley's  remarks  a])i)eared  to  me  veni'  sen- 
sible ;  but  past  ex])eriences  warned  me  not  to  say 
so.  My  object  was  to  smooth  down  difficulties 
with  Etty,  who  had  for  several  days  past  been 
strangely  irritable  and  fanciful.  But  that  w;\.s 
not  to  be  wondered  at:  for  how  should  she  be 
otherwise  than  unsettled,  with  Julian  so  far  away 
— for  so  many  years  ? 

"  Well,  Etty,"  I  said,  cheerfully,  "  never  mind 
Air.  Petersham's  motives,  and  don't  trouble  your 
head  about  eceri/  one's  gossip.  I  advise  you  to 
set  to  work  and  write  word  to  Julian  that  when 
he  returns  to  England  he'll  find  us  quite  rich 
women." 


62 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SOCIAL  DISTINCTIONS. 

"If  a  person  of  an  liumble  position  with  only 
ordinuiT  strcnjitli  of  charactei-  wishes  to  lead  in 
the  country  a  sim])le,  upright,  honest  life,  don't 
let  him  fix  Iiis  dwelling  near  the  gate  of  a  great 
man's  jjark."  This  is  one  of  Julian  Gower's 
maxims,  and  my  individual  experience  makes 
me  most  cordially  echo  it. 

I  enjoy  rural  life  as  thoroughly  as  it  is  passi- 
ble for  any  human  creature  to  do,  preferring  it 
far  before  the  excitement  and  greater  intellect- 
ual activity  of  cities ;  but  I  would  sooner  em- 
brace a  lot,  dooming  me  to  a  perpetual  impris- 
onment amidst  tlie  bricks  and  mortar  and  noisy 
contention  of  London,  unbroken  by  even  an  oc- 
casional visit  to  suburban  haunts,  than  one  which 
should  require  me  with  limited  means  to  abide 
for  nine  months  of  each  year  in  a  country  cot- 
tage within  sight  of  a  great  man's  park-lodge. 
And  I  am  not  led  to  this  opinion  simply  by  an 
observation  of  my  own  cliaracter,  though  that 
alone  would  be  n  sufficient  justification  for  my 
embracing  it.  In  my  time  I  have  lived  mucli 
and  intimately  with  a  variety  of  families  of  my 
own  rank  in  the  country — with  farmers  and  yeo- 
men, countr}'  doctors  and  country  lawyers,  coun- 
try clergymen  and  country  merchants — and  I 
have  invariably  found  their  lives  more  or  less 
healthy  and  dignified,  just  in  proportion  as  they 
are  more  or  less  remote  from  the  j^alaces  of  tlic 
aristocracy.  This  sentiment  will  seem  fantastic 
to  some  of  my  readers,  and  contemptible  to  many 
more;  yet  it  is  a  deliberate  expression  of  a  view 
which  I  am  ready  to  maintain  by  an  abundance 
of  illustration.  Rank  and  wealth  are  prone  ev- 
ery where  to  obtain  too  jjowerful  an  influence 
over  ordinary  minds;  and  in  the  country  their 
sway  amounts  to  downright  despotism  over  the 
moral  nature  of  those  who  either  are  destitute 
of  them  or  possess  them  in  only  a  limited  degree. 
In  cities,  where  they  are  abundant  and  are  sur- 
rounded by  other  sources  of  interest,  I  do  not 
think  about  them.  In  the  country  I  always  find 
I  have  to  .strive  against  their  tyranny;  and  how- 
ever steadily  I  strive  against  them,  I  find  inva- 
riably that  in  a  long  struggle  the}'  get  a  certain 
limited  mastery  over  me.  The  carriage  from 
the  Hall  passes  as  I  am  taking  a  contemplative, 
stroll  in  the  lanes;  I  see  the  ladies  in  their  rich 
dresses,  wearing  their  proud,  languid  looks  as 
they  lay  down  their  books  on  the  scat  before 
them,  or  exchange  words  with  the  gentlemen 
who  attend  them.  The  carriage  turns  into  my 
lord's  avenue,  and  as  it  dis.a]j]K'ars  fi-om  my  sight 
I  am  wondering  who  they  are,  whethir  they  are 
happy,  what  careers  of  s])lendid  and)ition  are  be- 
fore tliem,  instead  of  searching  the  wayside  bank 
fi)r  flowers,  or  keeping  a  briglit  look-out  for  a 
landscaj)C  to  paint,  or  recalling  the  last  ]X)em 
read,  or  ])ondering  on  gocxl  resolves  for  fiituri' 
action.  Nature,  art,  high  thought,  have  all  been 
sent  flying  by  the  high-stcjjping  luirses  and  the 
liveries  j)assing  mulcr  the  elms  oi'his  lordship's 
park.  In  short,  if  I  were  to  say  truly  what  has 
been  the  hardest  struggle  of  my  moral  life,  I 
slioidd  say — not  to  be  a  snoh.  Men,  with  their 
superior  strength  and  greater  variety  of  pursuits, 
do  not  experience  this  difficulty  so  frequently,  or 
in  so  great  a  degree,  as  women ;  and  yet  I  took 


for  my  text  to  this  homily  the  words  of  the  firm- 
est, bravest  man  of  action  I  have  ever  known. 

I  am  sure  that  if  we  had  not  lived  at  Laugh- 
ton,  with  that  grand  house,  and  park,  and  lake 
continually  before  us,  I  should  have  been  a  bet- 
ter woman,  and  Etty  a  happier. 

We  did  not  settle  well  to  our  work  after  the 
dcjiarture  of  "the  family."  Lady  Caroline  Pe- 
tersiiam,  and  Mr.  Petersham,  and  ^Injor  Watchit, 
though  we  knew  so  little  of  them,  had  more  of 
our  thoughts  than  our  friends  in  Laughton,  who 
had  received  us  with  cordial  welcome  when  we 
most  needed  it.  The  mere  flies  that  buzzed 
about  the  warmth  and  brightness  of  the  Peter- 
sham ])rosperity  became  to  us  as  birds  of  para- 
dise. I  liked  to  have  Miss  Argentine  Butter- 
worth,  and  Mrs.  Po]ipet,  and  Mrs.  ]\Iirth  call 
upon  us,  and  I  listened  to  them  with  gradually 
increasing  interest  as  they  instructed  me  on  the 
pedigree,  and  dignity,  and  wealth  of  the  sur- 
rounding county  families.  Amy  Reickart  was  a 
charming  cliild ;  but  as  the  ward  of  the  mighty 
Mv.  Petersham  she  had  fascinations  for  us  which 
she  woidd  not  have  otherwise  possessed.  I  blush 
to  reflect  on  all  this  miserable  pettiness,  and  I 
only  nairate  it  thus  minutely  because  it  is  right 
for  mc  to  do  so. 

Was  I  not  justified  in  saying  that  the  differ- 
ence between  life  at  Farnham  Cobb  and  life  at 
Laughton  was  very  great?  It  was  hard  to  be- 
lieve that  only  twelve  miles  of  rutted  lanes  lay 
between  us  and  our  old  home.  We  soon  left 
off  talking  of  Farnham  Cobb.  The  little  news 
that  came  to  us  from  that  parish  was  not  alto- 
gether of  a  kind  to  jileasc  us.  Mr.  Ardent's  in- 
novations were  reported  to  lis  with  exaggera- 
tions ;  and  I  heard  with  no  sincere  feelings  of 
pleasure  that  Mr.  Michael  Clawline  had  become 
the  tenant  of  Sandhill,  and  was  beginning  to  be 
looked  upon  as  a  farmer  of  some  importance.  I 
like  to  hear  of  men  rising  in  the  world  by  the 
exercise  of  honest  industry  and  sagacity  ;  but  as 
to  Mr.  Clawline's  industry,  he  nevencondescend- 
ed,  even  in  harvest-time,  "to  strip  tew  his  wark ;" 
and  as  to  his  sagacity,  I  could  not  see  how  mere 
intelligence  in  the  oi)crations  of  husbandry,  aided 
by  thrift,  could  lia\  c  ■.-.nsed  a  man  in  the  course 
of  twenty-five  years  I'lom  a  farm-servant  to  an 
occu]>icr  of  .a  considei"aI)Ie  farm.  It  was  unrea- 
sonaijle  in  me  to  be  annoyed  at  it.  I  knew  that 
"business"  was  a  game,  in  which  the  stakes 
steadily  and  imperceptibly  passed  out  of  the 
Innids  of  such  men  as  the  Rev.  Solomon  I'^asy 
into  the  canvas  bags  of  the  Michael  Clawlines. 
My  chagrin,  therefore,  was  out  of  place  when  it 
took  the  form  of  iiTitation  against  a  rule  of  life 
as  ancient  as 

That  good  old  plan, 
Tli;it  they  should  take  who  have  the  pOHer, 
And  they  should  keep  who  can. 

Had  my  dear  grandfather  lived  to  know  want 
the  case  would  have  been  different — attcction  for 
hiin  would  then  have  justified  my  indignation. 

I  fraiddy  told  Mr.  Gurley  my  feelings  on  this 
subject ;  hut  instead  of  sympathizing  with  mc, 
he  replied  with  incomparable  sonrj  froid,  "Oh 
that's  nothing  to  be  annoyed  at  I  Business  is 
business.  Of  course  Michael  Clawline  robbed 
your  grandfather — in  the  way  of  business.  Ev- 
ery body,  all  the  country  through,  robbed  your 
grandfather — in  the  way  of  business.  He  was  a 
safe  annuity  to  all  the  sharp  dealers  and  jobbeis 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


68 


witliin  twelve  miles  of  him.  Li  my  time  I  took 
A  greiit  deal  of  money  out  of  his  pocket.  Of 
course  I  never  rohbed  him — tiie  members  of  my 
profession  never  do  that  kind  of  thinf; — but  I 
squeezed  him  lirmly.  JSurcly  I  was  rij.;ht  in  do- 
inir  so.  His  money  is  much  safer  and  more  use- 
fully cmi)Ioyed  in  my  hands  than  it  would  be  in 
Chuvline's." 

In  the  Christmas  holidays  (and  also  on  the 
following  Mid-summer  vacation)  there  was  an 
oiubreak  of  gayety  in  Laughton.  The  towns- 
people entertained  each  other  at  dinner  and  qua- 
drille parties,  and  there  were  two  or  three  grand 
rece]itions  of  a  festive  kind  at  the  Rectory.  About 
half  a  dozen  or  a  dozen  young  men — students  at 
the  hospitals  in  London  or  the  Inns  of  Court, 
articled  clerks  to  metropolitan  solicitors,  under- 
graduates of  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  and  one  or 
two  young  barristers  —  visited  the  town  and 
neighborhood,  traveling  down  from  London  on 
the  roofs  of  the  coaches  which  dashed  ])ast  our 
gate  several  times  ii  day.  These  young  men 
brought  with  them  a  transient  etlervescence  of 
hilarity  that  was  an  agreeable  change  to  the 
usual  monotony  of  the  neighborhood-  Their 
conversation  and  general  tone  conveyed  an  im- 
pression that  the  pursuit  of  gayety  was  the  one 
business  of  their  lives.  By  day  they  went  out 
shooting,  or  skated  on  the  Abbey  water,  or  jjlayed 
billiards  in  the  billiard-room  of  the  Blue  Boar, 
or,  mounting  their  fathers'  hacks,  rode  up  and 
down  the  Higli  Street,  and  along  the  turnpike- 
road,  in  the  most  fidgety  and  clattering  fashion 
imaginable.  At  niglit  they  appeared  at  "  the 
party"  of  the  evening,  dancing  wildly  througli 
quadrilles  or  whirling  madly  in  waltzes,  abound- 
ing in  laughter  and  jokes,  drinking  wine  with 
reckless  freedom  at  sujjper,  and  finishing  uji  by 
putting  cigars  in  their  mouths  and  attending  iheir 
fair  partners  to  their  houses,  at  the  doors  of  which 
they  parted  with  them,  in  the  silly  sentimental 
style  which  young  men  of  that  day  affected. 

Etty  and  I  were  asked  to  these  parties,  and, 
in  obedience  to  Mrs.  Gurley's  counsel,  attended 
them.  Our  grandfather  had  been  so  recently 
dead  that  we  would  i-ather  have  declined  the  in- 
vitations to  the  Christmas  revels ;  but  on  Mrs. 
Gurley  assuring  us  that  to  do  so  would  render 
us  liable  to  misconstruction,  we  took  part  in  the 
rejoicing,  and  had  from  the  milliner,  already 
mentioned,  some  white  muslin  di-esses  trimmed 
with  mourning  ribbons.  I  was  glad  that  we  did 
so,  for  Etty  enjoyed  the  parties  very  much.  Her 
dancing  (acquired  from  the  professor  who  came 
to  the  cottage  to  teach  our  children)  was  declared 
to  be  very  graceful,  and  her. beauty  made  her 
the  belle  of  the  town.  Indeed  she  created  a 
"sensation;"  and  although  we  had  taken  pre- 
cautions that  her  engagement  to  Julian  Gower 
should  be  known,  she  had  to  refuse  an  offer  be- 
fore tlie  holidays  were  over,  besides  being  pes- 
tered Ijy  the  attentions  of  Captain  Mervin  But- 
terworth,  of  the  Royal  Artillery.  Of  course, 
while  Laughton  was  rejoicing  I  was  a  person  of 
.  comparative  insignificance.  I  went  every  where, 
and  was  hospitably  received  wherever  I  went ; 
but  it  was  seldom  that  I  was  asked  to  dance; 
and  as  I  always  declined  the  few  proffers  that 
were  made  me,  it  came  to  be  understood  that 
my  office  was  to  do  duty  as  chaperon  to  my  pret- 
ty sister,  and  play  quadrilles  and  waltzes  when  | 
there  was  no  hired  pianist  present. 


I  had  not  before  had  a  really  good  opportuni- 
ty of  studying  Laughton  society.  Hitiicrto  we 
iuid  known  the  jicople  only  at  a  distance  as 
strangers,or  mere  ac(piainlances  to  bow  to  in  the 
streets.  Tiiose  who  iiad  jjupils  to  send  us  were 
comjjaratively  few ;  and  it  was  only  with  those 
few  tiiat  we  had,  up  to  the  Christinas  holidays, 
held  j)ersonal  interccjurse.  On  the  whole,  a  close 
examination  did  not  tend  to  raise  the  ])eople  in 
my  estimation.  Tiiey  were  so  divided  by  class 
rivalries  and  political  prejudices.  "The  fami- 
ly," and  "the  family  before  tlie  Petershams,"' 
and  "  the  family  before  the  family  that  came 
before  the  Petershams,"  were  everlasHngly  be- 
ing dragged  into  conversation.  All  the  tempo- 
rary residents  at  the  Abbey  previous  to  the  Pe- 
tershams had,  for  electioneering  purposes,  main- 
tained visiting  relations  with  the  leading  towns- 
j)eoj)le ;  and  we  were  constantly  hearing  such 
sentences  as,  "When  I  dined  with  Sir  Arthur 
^Nlarrytage  at  the  Abbey,"  and,  "When  Lord 
and  Lady  Bellhaven  did  us  tlie  honor  of  dining 
at  our  table."  Every  peer,  or  baronet,  or  gov- 
ernment placeman,  who  had  staid  in  the  ])arish 
during  any  day  of  tht  ])revious  twenty  years  was 
mentioned  in  terms  of  friendship  by  persons  who 
had  only  shaken  hands  witli  tiiem  before  ;in  elec- 
tion contest.  This  folly  was  only  aggravated  by 
the  pugnacious  opposition  of  the  few  ])ersons 
who,  either  from  genuine,  but  embittered,  right 
feeling,  or  from  jjrivate  pique,  did  battle  with 
it.  The  modes  in  which  the  war  of  Simjilicity 
versus  Assumption  was  carried  on  were  some- 
times very  grotesque.  One  gentleman,  a  retired 
naval  ofiieer,  had  been  guilty  of  the  bad  taste  of 
decorating  his  plate  with  arms  to  which  he  had 
no  right.  As  a  jirotest  against  this  absinxlity, 
Mr.  Prince,  an  ojuilent  merchant,  known  to  bo 
a  member  of  an  old  gentle  family  of  the  district, 
had  the  arms  erased  from  all  his  liousehold  goods 
which  had  for  generations  been  ornamented  with 
them.  His  conduct  was  the  cause  of  a  hot  quar- 
rel ;  but  he  persisted  in  directing  the  attention 
of  his  guests  to  the  blemished  spoons  and  tank- 
ards from  which  he  had  scratched  his  armorial 
bearings.  Mr.  Prince  was  intensely  ])roud  of  his 
virtue  in  this  jiarticular.  But  I  could  not  see 
much  to  admire  in  it ;  and  I  thought  his  pride 
was  just  as  false  as  that  which  he  so  extravagant- 
ly despised  in  his  oi)i)onent. 

"  Oh,  Etty,"  1  said,  as  the  holidays  came  to  a 
close  with  a  dance  at  Mr.  Prince's  house,  "  what 
a  number  of  sweet  Howers  never  come  to  their 
l)erfection  in  that  little  town,  and  all  through  tlie 
cold  shade  flung  u])on  them  by  the  trees  of  tliis 
niagnificent  jiark !" 

"Rubbish,  Tibby!"  was  my  sister's  answer. 
"  Rather  say  wliat  a  number  of  graces  you  find 
in  the  rustic  inhabitants  of  that  little  town,  sim- 
])Iy  because  they  get  occasional  lessons  in  a  high 
school  of  manners !" 

It  is  a  small  matter  to  remark  u]ion,  and  yet 
it  is  worthy  of  observation  that  Etty  and  I  al- 
ways spoke  of  the  town  of  Laughton  (though  it 
was  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  from  our  cot- 
tage) as  if  we  didn't. belong  to  it.  Its  inhabitants 
were  to  us  "the  townspeople."  We  were  resi- 
dents in  the  park. 


«1 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


CHAFrER  XIV. 


JULIAN'S     BAD     NEWS. 

I  HAVE  said  ciiouf;h  to  show  that  our  life  in 
"The  Cottage,"  hiii)py  and  prosj)crons  as  it  ap-  i 
pcarcd  to  outside  observers,  contained  w'ithin  it  ' 
the  seeds  of  dis([niet  and  moral  deterioration. 
I  am  of  a  hardy  nature,  and  the  position  of  trust 
in  which  I  was  as  a  child  jihiced  by  the  early 
deatii  of  my  mother  had  ^iven  me  an  armor  suit- 
able for  a  contest  with  moral  adversaries.  It 
was,  however,  otherwise  with  dear  Etty.  At 
Farnham  Cobb  she  had,  to  the  last  days  of  my 
grandfather's  life,  been  the  child,  the  pet,  the  ^ 
plaything  ;  and  now  she  felt  need  of  the  strength 
which  different  circumstances  had  given  me.  I 
I  watclied  her  with  lively  anxiety.  There  was  j 
reason  for  my  doing  so.  The  laughing,  glee-  | 
some  child  of  Farnham  Cobb,  the  child  whose 
buoyant  sjiirits  had  been  jjcrijetual  music  and 
sunshine  in  the  old  College,  began  to  suffer  from 
attacks  of  dejection.  Not  seldom  I  found  her 
with  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  would  make  her 
appearance  at  our  breakfast-table  wi!h  a  cloud- 
ed brow ;  and  (greatest  change  of  all)  she  be- 
trayed frequent  signs  of  petulance  and  irritabili- 
ty. To  the  children,  however,  she  was  invaria- 
bly jiatient  and  loving.  They  hung  upon  her, 
playing  with  her  golden  curls  and  kissing  her 
pretty  face.  They  wrote  home,  also,  simple  ac- 
counts of  her  goodness  and  sweetness.  Little 
Amy  Reickart's  n<jtes  to  her  guardian,  penned 
in  magnified  round  hand,  were  full  of  the  })raises 
of  "dear  Miss  Euy."  At  the  outset  we  estab- 
lished the  rule  that,  for  the  sake  of  her  dignity, 
my  sister  should  be  addressed  by  our  children  as 
"  Miss  Annette ;"  but  the  law  soon  became  ob- 
solete, and  "Miss  Annette"  was  converted  into 
"dear  Miss  Etty." 

"You  sec,"  i  said  to  her  one  day,  with  a 
laugh,  "you  are  the  bright  fairy,  and  I  am  the 
dark  ogress  of  this  castle." 

I  should  have  been  blind  had  I  not  seen  that 
Etty  was  unha])py.  I  could  not  press  her  for  the 
secret  of  her  sorrow ;  for  to  pry  into  the  sadness 
of  anoiher's  heart  has  always  seemed  to  me  as 
cruel  as  to  refuse  sym])athy  to  those  who  invite 
it.  My  part  was  to  watch  her  tenderly,  and  be 
careful  that  no  coldness  or  a])parent  indifference 
to  her  hajjpincss  on  my  ])art  prevented  her  from 
speaking  to  me  when  she  miglit  w  ish  to  pour  her 
trouble  into  the  car  of  a  frimd.  From  my  in- 
most heart  I  ])itied  her.  The  right  arm  to  sup- 
port her,  the  lips  that  alone  could  comfort  her, 
the  only  heart  that  could  fully  and  accurately 
study  hers,  was  so  far  away. 

At  first  Julian's  letters  won  back  the  lost  fresh- 
ness to  her  face  and  spirits.  Once  a  month  the 
mail  brought  a  packet  from  South  America,  and 
surely  as  it  arrived  Etty  was  again  for  a  few  days 
the  light-hearted  girl  of  old  times  ;  at  least  the 
letters  had  that  good  cfl'oct  upon  her  for  several 
months.  The  ho])efulness,  and  courage,  and 
hearty  matdiness  of  Julian's  writing  braced  licr 
nerves,  driving  away  for  a  time  ail  tiie  petty  fool- 
ish imaginations  which  crept  alike  into  her  mind 
and  mine.  Of  course  he  was  minutely  informed 
of  all  our  proceedings.  In  his  village  at  the  foot 
of  a  ridge  of  the  Andes  hv.  was  familiar  with 
our  life  at  Laughton — tlie  size  of  our  house  and 
rooms,  the  characters  of  our  pupils,  the  nature 
of  our  frieiidshij)^,  the  hours  wc  kcjit,  the  walks 


we  took.  At  the  close  of  January  we  had  a  let- 
ter from  him  containing  a  gra))hie  account  of 
what  ai)])eared  to  us  a  more  singular  coincidence 
than  any  to  be  found  in  the  records  of  domestic 
romance.  In  Northumberland,  just  before  re. 
signing  his  jiost  of  nnder-viewer  to  the  Shorton 
Colliery,  he  had  seen  Miss  (ilive  Blake,  the  heir- 
ess of  the  firm  of  "  retersham  and  Blake" — the 
lady  who  was  in  due  time  to  be  the  bride  of  Mr. 
Arthur  Petersham.  He  had  not  only  seen  her, 
but  had  walked  with  her  over  a  Northumbrian 
moor,  and  talked  with  her  freely  and  in  confi- 
dence!. What  was  more,  he  had  talked  to  her 
aljout  no  less  a  person  than  Etty  Tree  of  Farn- 
ham C(jl)b ;  and  it  was  in  consecpicnce  of  her 
advice  that  he  had  declared  his  love  to  Etty, 
j'oung  as  slie  then  Avas,  and  long  as  the  ]ieriod 
))ro!nised  to  be  ere  he  could  make  her  his  wife. 
Here  was  a  coincidence!  How  Etty  blushed, 
and  how  her  eyes  dimmed  with  innocent,  mis- 
chievous hap])iness  as  she  read  the  whole  ac- 
count of  the  meeting!  The  surprise  and  the 
gladness  were  the  best  of  medicines  for  her.  She 
went  about  singing  for  a  whole  week. 
]5at  then  she  fiaggcd  again. 
S]uing  came,  and  with  it  the  anniversary  of 
our  dear  grandfather's  death.  Etty  and  I  laid 
aside  our  mourning,  and,  like  the  beds  in  the 
warm  nooks  of  our  garden,  put  on  bright,  cheer- 
ful colors;  but  the  change  of  costume  did  more 
to  remind  us  sorrowfully  of  the  good  old  man 
than  ever  oin-  black  weeds  had  done.  Indeed  I 
had  a  fortnight  of  real  low  spirits;  and  ere  they 
had  left  me  Mr.  Petersham  wrote  to  me,  an- 
nouncing his  mother's  death,  and  requesting 
that  Amy  Reickart,  as  one  of  her  distant  rela- 
tions, should  be  i)Ut  into  moin-ning.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  we  had  heard  of  any  relationship 
existing  i)etween  Amy  and  our  guardian. 

Kind  words  make  their  speaker  loved.  We 
had  received  from  Lady  Caroline  both  kind 
words  and  kind  deeds ;  and  I  question  whether 
amidst  all  the  crowd  who  swelled  her  funeral 
])om])  there  were  si.x  ]iersons  who  regretted  the 
amiable  old  lady  more  than  Etty  and  myself.  If 
we  had  been  a  little  foolish,  first  in  feeling  )iride 
at  her  notice,  and  then  in  being  sensitive  as  to 
its  cause,  we  felt  reproved.  Whatever  else  might 
ha])])en  to  us,  she  would  never  again  tickle  our 
vanity  or  touch  otir  self-love. 

Soon  we  bad  a  graver  cause  for  trouble.  Ju- 
lian wrote  us  that  he  had  not  before  told  us  the 
difficulties  liy  which  he  was  surrounded.  He 
had  not  wished  to  de])ress  us  with  melancholy 
intelligence,  aiul  he  had  refrained  from  telling 
us  all  the  trials  with  which  he  had  to  contend, 
until  he  had  satisfied  himself  cither  that  tluy 
were  insuperable  or  would  succumb  to  energetic 
treatment.  The  substance  of  the  following  ex- 
jilanation  was,  that  he  had  been  at  length  con- 
vinced that  the  mines,  of  which  he  was  su]  eiin- 
teiident,  could  never  be  worked  to  advantage, 
and  that,  as  he  was  l)ound  to  serve  the  comjiany 
to  whom  they  belonged  for  something  more  than 
foin-  years  longer,  he  had  the  cheerless  prospect 
of  returning  to  England  at  the  expiration  of  his 
term  almost  as  ))Oor  as  he  left  it.  Thus  much 
he  told  us.  He  did  not  add  (that  which  long 
years  afterward  I  found  out  w.as  the  case)  that, 
at  the  time  of  ]jenning  the  letter  which  so  af- 
flicted us,  he  was  suifering  extreme  debility  from 
an  attack  of  fever — was  surrounded  bv  mutinous 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


6S 


workmen — and  was  in  hourly  peril  of  a  violent 
death.  He  only  told  us  that  which  niiylit  af- 
fect our  private  calculations  for  the  future.  He 
caused  us  no  jjain  save  that  which  was  necessary 
for  us  to  endure  if  we  were  to  hi-  secureil  from 
a  more  cruel  disaj)j)ointment  a  few  years  iicuc-e. 
His  bright  visions  of  wealth  speedily  ac(iuireil  had 
turned  out  empty  dreams.  It  woidd  have  been 
barbarous  mercy  to  have  kept  us  in  ignorance 
of  the  fact.  If  he  were  silent,  we  might  reason- 
ably suppose  that  a  portion  of  his  "  great  ex- 
pectations" had  been  realized,  and  we  might 
build  up  castles  of  hope  the  overthrow  of  which 
Avould  bury  us  beneath  their  ruins. 

There  was  one  source  of  consolation  in  the 
letter.  Its  tone  Svas  hopeful,  manly,  self-reliant, 
undaunted.  It  was  a  hero's  L-ttei'.  Clouded 
by  misfortune,  Julian  Gower  stood  erect.  No 
adversary  should  subdue  him. 

"  Darling  Etty,"  I  said,  watching  my  sister's 
pale  face,  "have  we  not  reason  now  to  be  thank- 
ful for  the  success  of  our  fchool?  Julian  may 
return  to  England  poor,  but  he  will  have  faith- 
f  dly  discharged  the  arduous  duties  ]ilaced  on 
Iiim  by  his  em])loyei-s,  and  his  wife  will  have  a 
fortune  of  £1000  to  present  him  with." 

She  pulled  her  golden  hair  off  her  face  with 
both  hands  and  let  it  fall  back  on  Iier  shoulders. 
Then  looking  at  me,  in  a  tone  tliat  cut  me  to 
my  inmost  heart,  she  said,  "God  bless  you,  Tib- 
by !  may  God  reward  you  for  your  care  of  me  as 
you  deserve !  I  wish  I  were  as  good  a  woman 
as  you  are !" 

Having  made  this  speech,  which  in  a  certain 
way  was  to  me  inexplicable,  she  took  up  the 
leaves  of  Julian's  letter  and  quitted  the  room, 
leiiving  me  to  ponder  on  her  strange  words  and 
stranger  manner.  What  could  have  been  in  tlie 
dear  child's  mind  to  make  her  address  me  so 
earnestly?  why  should  she  esteem  me  so  much 
better  than  herself? 


CHAPTER  xy. 

etty's   question. 

Just  before  the  arrival  of  Julian's  dispiriting 
letter,  I  and  Etty  had  actually  entertained  the 
thought  of  visiting  London.  Indeed  we  had  al- 
most determined  to  do  so.  I  had  never  been  in 
the  cajjital  of  Great  Britain,  and  Etty  had  never 
seen  a  larger  town  than  that  which  was  over- 
shadowed by  the  Abbey  woods.  Several  ladies 
in  Laughton  resembled  myself  in  never  having 
seen  London,  and  not  a  few  Laughton  girls  of 
Etty's  age  were  in  the  same  degree  with  her  ig- 
norant of  the  delights  and  discomforts  of  travel- 
ing. The  cathedral  town,  forty  miles  distant, 
whither  once  in  three  years  a  musical  festival, 
with  all  the  best  London  artists  for  ]ierformers, 
attracted  all  the  wealthier  inhabitants  of  the  sur- 
rounding provinces,  was  the  metropolis  with 
which  the  Laughton  "ladies  of  the  world"  boast- 
ed a  familiar  acquaintance. 

With  a  desire,  natural  to  our  years,  of  sccMUg 
the  world  beyond  the  confines  of  our  own  nar- 
row home,  and  with  a  not  rc]irchensible  aml)ition 
to  be  somewhat  in  advance  of  our  more  back- 
ward neighbors,  I  and  my  sister  had  meditated 
a  visit  to  London.  The  trip,  I  felt,  would  do 
me  good ;  and  Etty's  health  required  change  of 
ill 


scene.  Of  course  wc  gained  a  kind  of  moral 
countenance  to  our  ])roject  by  arguing  that  the 
experience  and  ])restige  we  should  gain  by  the 
excursion  would  better  qualify  us  to  be  efficient 
instructors  of  the  young,  and  would  confer  distinc- 
tion on  our  school.  Of  course  we  took  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Giuley  into  our  confidence,  and  they  both 
warmly  encouraged  us  to  carry  out  our  daring 
proposition.  Mrs.  Gurley  had  a  cousin,  married 
to  a  tradesman  in  Oxford  Street,  who  would  be 
hap])y  cither  to  take  us  into  her  house  as  lodgers 
(if  slie  had  the  requisite  accommodation),  or  to 
tind  us  a  res]iectable  (Unuicile,  if  ait  increasing 
family  rendered  her  unable  to  receive  us  under 
her  own  roof.  Mr.  Gurley  could  tell  all  about 
the  ]>erils  of  the  road,  and  the  mysteries  of  the 
town ;  what  places  to  visit,  what  coach  fares  to 
])ay,  what  extortions  to  avoid.  He  and  Mrs. 
Gurley  knew  more  of  London  than  any  other 
l)eoj)le  of  their  age  in  Laughton ;  for  they  had 
s])ent  the  honey-moon,  twciUy  years  before,  at 
the  Bull  and  Mouth,  near  the  far-famed  Blue 
Coat  School,  and  they  had  sojourned  in  it  three 
sejiarate  times  since. 

We  and  our  kind  friends  met  together  several 
evenings  in  succession,  after  onr  children  were 
in  bed,  and  discussed  the  details  of  our  scheme, 
Mr.  Gurley  with  a  map  of  London,  and  a  hand- 
book of  London,  and  a  whole  sheaf  of  antique 
jilay-bills  on  the  table  before  him.  Nothing 
could  be  more  hearty  than  the  interest  he  mani- 
fested in  our  contemplated  movements.  First 
he  took  us  up  the  road,  giving  us,  by  the  help 
of  a  topographical  dictionary,  a  vivid  and  accu- 
rate view  of  the  various  towns  through  which 
we  should  pass,  particularly  impressing  upon  us 
that  when  the  coach  stopped  to  breakfast  and 
dine  wc  were  not  to  wait  for  ceremony,  but  seize 
hold  of  whatever  lay  before  us,  only  taking  care 
to  avoid  very  hot  dishes.  For  he  explained  to 
us  that  the  landlords  of  the  Winchat  Arms  and 
the  Burfield  Boaster  were  in  the  habit  of  delay- 
ing the  dinner  till  the  coach  was  oit  the  very 
point  of  starting  again,  and  then  would  seduce 
the  unwary  into  taking  basins  of  scalding  soup 
and  vitriolic  Irish  stews  which  no  mortal  mouth 
could  consume  till  they  had  cooled  down.  Then 
Mr.  Gurley  drew  out,  for  our  guidance  and  pres- 
ervation iu  t/ie  city  of  the  world,  three  se])aratc 
lists  of  memoranda,  headed  resi)cctively  "things 
to  be  seen,"  "things  to  be  avoided,"  "things  to 
be  borne  in  mind."  In  addition  to  this,  ]\Ir.  Gur- 
ley ])resented  ns  with  a  nmnual  containing  lists 
of  the  distances  between  a  great  number  of  dif- 
ferent places  within  the  walls  of  London,  and 
added  to  it  a  bulky  abstract,  in  his  own  hand- 
writing, of  the  laws  relating  to  hacknej-coaches. 
And  finally,  that  I  might  not  commence  my  per- 
ilous expedition  without  all  possible  foreknowl- 
edge of  what  I  should  encounter,  IMr.  Gurley 
lent  me  for  a  jjrivate  perusal  an  old  copy  of 
"Tom  and  Bob  in  London." 

I  need  not  say  that  Julian's  discouragii^  in- 
telligence ])Ut  an  end  to  this  fascinating  jn-oject. 
We  had  a  better  use  for  thirty  pounds  than  the 
expense  of  a  trip  to  Loudon.  So  we  returned 
"  Tom  and  Bob,"  ami  the  "  Manual  of  Hackney- 
Coach  Fares,"  and  the  manuscrijjt  abstract  of 
the  laws  relating  to  hackney-coaches  to  Mr.  Gur- 
ley, with  the  intimation  tliat  we  had  relinquished 
our  intention.  At  lirst  he  was  astonished;  but 
when  we  frankly  told  him  the  reason,  he  approved 


€6 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


our  conduct  emphatically.  "Quite  riglit,  vouuk 
ladies!"  he  said.  "  Enjoyment  is  a  good  tiling, 
but  it  may  cost  too  nuuli." 

We  remained  in  Laughton,  therefore,  during 
the  Mid-summer  holidays,  taking  ])art  in  tiio 
second  outbreak  of  festivity,  already  mentioned. 
The  horticultural  show,  and  cricket  matches,  and 
numerous  iiicnics,  were  the  princi])al  features  of 
the  gayety ;  hut  we  did  not  enjoy  tliem  so  much 
as  we  iuid  enjoyed  the  Christmas  dances.  I  was 
very  sad  in  my  secret  heart,  and  it  was  generally 
remarked  how  ])ale  and  ill  Etty  looked.  To  me, 
however,  it  aj)peared  that  she  was  stronger  in 
bodily  health,  though  subject  to  depression  of 
spirits.  One  bad  sign  in  her  could  not  escajjc 
my  observation.  I  noticed  that  she  no  longer 
counted  the  days  imiiatienily  till  the  arrival  of 
the  mail  which  brought  Julian's  letters.  I  re- 
marked that  when  we  were  in  iMr.  Gurley's  house 
she  no  longer  took  his  daily  jiaper  into  a  retired 
corner  of  the  room,  and  perused  the  shipping 
news,  to  see  whether  the  vessel  bearing  the  youth 
American  mails  had  been  "  spoken  with,"  or  was 
announced  as  entering  the  Thames.  I  saw,  too, 
that,  when  her  heavy  monthly  packet  was  at 
length  brought  to  her  by  the  postman,  a  look  of 
trouble  came  over  her  face  (as  though  she  were 
being  reminded  of  an  old  sorrow),  instead  of  the 
sunny  outbreak  of  gladness  with  which  she  used 
to  run  forward  and  seize  the  budget.  I  observed 
also  that  she  seemed  almost  reluctant  to  set  about 
answering  Julian's  letters,  and  would  delay  do- 
ing so  until  three  or  four  days  before  the  start- 
ing of  the  outward  mail,  when  she  had  time  only 
for  a  meagre  ej^stle.  I  took  one  of  these  later 
letters  in  my  hand  in  her  ])rcsence  after  it  was 
sealed  and  linished,  and  I  balanced  it  on  my 
fingers. 

"  What  are  you  thinking,  Tibby  ?"  she  asked, 
sharjily. 

"llather  short  weight,"  I  answered  laconic- 
ally, with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  Tibby,"  she  answered,  piteously,  "don't 
watch  me  so !  Surely  you  would  not  have  me 
send  my  heaviness  of  s)iirit  to  him." 

About  this  time,  also,  she  contracted  a  hal)it 
of  speaking  of  Julian  as  "Poor  Julian,"  and 
"  Poor  dear  Julian."  I  could  bear  with  her  de- 
jection and  her  irritability,  and  what  I  had  al- 
ready come  to  regard  as  her  want  of  courage ; 
but  this  commiseration  for  ^'' Poor  Julian"  1 
could  not  endure.  It  cut  me  to  the  heart.  I 
know  that  my  eyes  flashed  and  my  bauds  trem- 
bled when  I  heard  the  word  "  poor"  a.pplied  to 
him ;  and  I  was  afraid  that  I  should  betray  to  Etty 
how  much  she  disturbed  me  by  so  using  the  word. 

At  last  that  which  I  had  feared  might  hap- 
pen did  take  jilace,  and  irritation  overcame  my 
wise  resolution  to  control  it. 

'■'■Poor  Julian  !  Poor  Julian  !"  I  said,  bitter- 
ly. "Can't  you  say  brave  Julian  ?  That  would 
be  a  better  word  to  a])jily  to  him." 

"I  was  thinking  of  him  selfishly,"  she  an- 
swered, not  seeming  to  resent  my  correction. 
"What  I  really  mean  is — jioor  Etty." 

"And  why  are  you  jmor  Etty?"  I  returned, 
with  outward  composure,  but  a  tide  of  anger 
rising  in  my  heart. 

"What,  Tiliby,"  she  answered,  "do  ?/o?<  ask 
me  why  1  call  myself  ;>oor  Etty  ?  The  man  that 
I  am  engaged  to  is  ])oor,  and  bids  fair  always  to 
be  so ;  surely  then  I  am  guilty  of  no  great  im- 


propriety in  calling  myself  poor.  This  is  the 
jirospcct  before  me.  Four  years  hence  Julian 
will  return  to  Englaml,  and  begin  life  again  I 
just  as  he  was  when  he  went  on  that  luckless  ' 
expedition  to  South  America.  He'll  be  an  nn- 
der-viewer  once  again  in  Northumberland,  with 
an  income  ail'ording  him  bare  subsistence.  And 
lij  will  say  to  me,  '  Etty,  we  must  wait  and  hope ! 
wait  and  hope!  Ten  or  fifteen  years  hence  I 
may  jteriiaps  have  a  ]iermanent  post,  and  a  sal- 
ary of  four  or  five  hundred  pounds  per  annum, 
and  then,  when  you  are  between  thirty  and  for- 
ty, and  I  am  between  forty  and  fifty  years  old, 
we  shall  be  able  to  marry.  Only  we  must  wait 
and  hope  !'  Oh,  Tibby,  just  think  of  me  all  this 
time,  waiting  and  hoping!  Air  I  not  indeed 
'poor  Etty?' " 

This  to  me  who  knew  so  well  a  far  deeper  sor- 
row !  whose  only  prospect  in  life  was  to  wait — 
without  the  jirivilege  of  hoping  ! 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  be  selfish  and  to  judge 
harshly.  For  a  few  brief  minutes,  that  brought 
with  them  years  of  disaster,  I  could  not  see  the 
heavy  burden  of  temptation  placed  njion  her — a 
burden  so  out  of  ]n-oportion  to  her  strength.  All 
I  could  think  of  was  her  cowardly  rej)ining  over 
the  sternness  of  her  lot,  and  the  hardshij)s  of  her 
case,  and  her  ajiparent  forgetfulncss  of  Ids  trials 
and  self-sacrificing  heroism. 

"Etty,"  I  said,  hotly,  "yon  are  unworthy  the 
love  of  Julian.  If  1  were  betrothed  to  him,  with 
the  prospect  of  waiting  and  hoping  through  twen- 
ty years  of  adversit}',  I  should  not  wail  because 
the  unspeakable  hajipiness  to  which  I  looked  was 
deferred  to  a  vague,  far-olf  future — because  / 
had  to  battle  with  povcrtj-— because,  while  oth- 
ers enjoyed  the  sunny  places  of  life,  /  was  con- 
fined to  humble  toil.  If  I  wailed  at  all,  it  should 
be  l)ccause  lie  was  overtasked  and  in  trouble,  and 
had  (with  all  the  forces  of  an  impetuous  nature 
rendering  him  intolerant  of  delay,  and  impatient 
of  obstacles  in  the  w'ay  of  his  designed  career)  to 
wait  and  hope.  I  would  not  think  of  myself, 
but  of  Kim  —  Ids  courage.  Ids  truthfulness.  Ids 
magnificent  disregard  of  self,  and  yet  withal  his 
bitter  sense  of  deferred  hope.  Etty  think  more 
of  hhn — less  oi yourself.'''' 

"It's  a  pity,  Tibby, ''she  said,  scoffingly,  when 
I  had  brought  my  imprudent  and  very  repre- 
hensible sj)eech  to  an  end,  "that  he  did  not 
make  you  iin  oifer.  You  would  make  him  a 
much  better  wife  than  ever  I  shall." 

"  Oh,  Etty  !"  I  exclaimed,  flashing  up,  and  as 
suddenly  checking  myself  in  my  anger,  "I 
woulil  to  (jod  that  he — " 

"  Go  on,  Tibby,"  she  rejoined  quickly,  her  vi- 
olet eyes  sending  a  shock  through  me. 

I  was  silent,  ami,  ]iutting  my  hand  on  the  table 
to  steady  myself,  was  in  fifty  seconds  much  calmer. 

"Go  on,  Tibby,''  she  again  said,  stooping 
down  from  the  proud  .elegance  of  her  height,  till 
her  eyes  were  on  a  level  with  mine,  when  she 
added,  slowly,  "You  mean  to  say  you  wish  he 
had  made  you  an  offer.  You  would  then  have 
aecejitcd  him  ?" 

1  drew  away  from  her,  not  suddenly,  and  as 
though  her  inquiry  had  touched  my  conscicnic, 
but  deliberately,  as  I  might  have  drawn  b.ick 
from  a  ]iassionatc  child.  Then  I  said,  slowly, 
"Etty,  recall  what  you  have  said.  How  dare 
you  i)Ut  such  a  question  to  me?" 

j\ly  words,  or  my  manner,  or  some  reaction 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


C7 


of  feeliiifj  in  her  own  breast  subdued  ber;  for 
without  saying  more  slic  left  tlie  room.  And 
for  tlic  second  time  since  I  had  been  an  inmate 
of  the  cottage  my  grandfather's  words  recurred 
to  mc,  with  such  force  that  they  seemed  to  be 
actually  uttered  in  my  room  by  a  small  clear 
voice,  "Let  nothing  separate  you  from  Etty; 
cling  to  her,  make  her  cling  to  you.  To  quar- 
rel with  one's  own  blood  is  to  cut  through  one's 
own  heart." 

The  look  that  Etty  had  given  me  was  a  look 
that  I  had  before  experienced.  Ilcr  glance  was 
the  same  as  that  my  dear  grandfather  gave  me 
on  the  evening  of  that  day  when  Julian  made 
his  oli'er  to  my  sister.  It  was  the  same  glance, 
aimed  at  the  same  secret  of  my  life  ;  and  I  could 
not  conceal  from  myself  that,  in  spite  of  myself, 
I  had  responded  to  it  by  the  same  self-betray- 
ing glance  which  I  bad  involuntarily  directed  to 
my  dear  grandfather  on  the  occasion  alluded  to. 
My  words,  literally  interpi-eted,  had  not  publish- 
ed the  secret,  which  it  was  clear  Etty  suspected, 
and  which  I  would  not  for  my  life  have  her  know. 
But  had  she  seen  my  glance?  Had  she  inter- 
preted it  as  thoroughly  as  my  dear  grandfather 
had  done  ? 

The  storm  was  at  end,  and  when  I  saw  Etty 
again  she  was  all  smiles  and  tenderness.  But 
I  was  not  easy  under  her  tenderness.  What,  I 
thought,  had  softened  her  so  to  me?  We  nev- 
er again  spoke  a  harsh  word  to  each  other ;  but 
tlicre  was  an  embarrassment,  of  which  we  were 
both  equally  sensible,  between  us.  We  each 
knew  that  the  other  suffered  under  this  embar- 
rassment. We  still  spoke  of  Julian,  but  with 
caution  and  restraint.  By  degrees  we  got  into 
the  habit  of  spending  our  hours  of  recreation 
apart  from  each  other,  and  we  manifested  an  in- 
clination not  to  intrude  on  each  other's  private 
moments.  When  Etty  in  her  Ipisure  time  play- 
ed the  organ  in  the  church  I  never  intruded  on 
her  solitude.  And  she  acquired  a  habit  of  tap- 
jiing,  ere  she  entered,  at  the  door  of  my  little 
closet,  where  I  kept  my  books  and  liked  to  sit 
reading. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ANOTHER     AUTUMN. 

It  was  a  relief  to  have  the  children  back  from 
their  jNlid-summer  holidays,  and  be  at  work 
again.  A  sense  that  life  was  going  wrong  with 
me,  and  that  powers  were  silently  in  action  bear- 
ing me  on  to  unseen  and  unimagined  disaster, 
robbed  leisure  of  its  sweetness.  Occupation 
caused  me,  in  spite  of  myself,  to  live  in  the  pres- 
ent, and  leave  the  future  to  take  care  of  itself. 
Etty,  I  thought,  resembled  myself  in  this ;  for 
with  the  recommencement  of  school  duties  some- 
thing of  her  old  cheerfulness  returned  to  her. 
For  days  together  she  would  appear  almost  hap- 
]./.  But  I  never  heard  the  silver  laugh  of  her 
childhood  ringing  out  peal  upon  peal.  No,  nev- 
er again  was  I  to  hear  that  laugli ! 

Sejjtember  came,  and  on  the  first  of  the  month 
Mr.  Arthur  Byfield  Petersham  was  siiooting  the 
partridges  at  Laughton.  He  was  in  deep  mourn- 
ing for  his  mother;  whose  death,  INIr.  Gtudey 
informed  us,  would  be  assigned  to  the  neighbor- 
ing county  fiimilies  as  a  reason  for  their  not  be- 
ing entertained  with  hospitality  at  the  Abbey,  as 


they  were  during  the  previous  autumn.  It  was 
uuilerstood  tiiat  he  had  been  greatly  affected  by 
Lady  Caroline's  death,  and  was  desirous  of  quiet 
and  retirement. 

On  the  fourth  of  September  he  called  at  the 
Cottage,  and  sat  with  me  and  Etty  for  more 
than  half  an  hour.  Ho  was  jiale,  subdued  in 
manner,  and  appeared  to  be  very  unwell ;  but  he 
talked  to  us  freely,  and  in  a  vein  of  flattering 
confidence.  The  cottage,  he  said,  put  him  in 
mind  of  Lady  Caroline,  and  of  the  hapjty  hours  ' 
she  had  spent  with  us.  He  was  pleased  to  see 
that  our  garden  had  been  kept  in  such  good  or- 
der, and  he  surprised  us  agreeably  by  saying  that 
he  had  that  morning  requested  Mr.  Gurley  to 
give  directions  for  the  building  of  a  small  green- 
house at  the  south  end  of  the  cottage. 

"You  see,"  he  added,  that  we  might  make 
light  of  this  kind  and  costly  jjresent,  "  I  feel  that 
in  building  a  green-house  for  yon  1  shall  be  both 
doing  as  my  dear  mother  would  wish  me,  and  at 
the  same  time  shall  be  only  imjn'oving  a  pretty 
corner  of  my  own  property  ;  for  my  mother  con- 
ceived a  warm  affection  for  you,  and  I  have  de- 
cided to  buy  this  estate  when  it  isoflered  for  sale." 

He  told  us  that  he  meant  to  live  in  strict  se- 
clusion during  the  six  weeks  or  two  months  of 
his  stay  at  the  Abbey.  He  should  shoot,  for  to 
do  so  would  induce  him  to  take  the  exercise 
requisite  for  his  health ;  and  his  old  friend  and 
school-fellow,  Major  Watchit,  would  join  him  in 
the  course  of  a  day  or  two.  But  otherwise  he 
meant  to  have  neither  friend  nor  amusement  to 
help  him  to  get  through  his  vacation.  "In 
fact  I  want  to  be  quiet,"  he  said,  witli  a  smile, 
"and  Watchit's  tongue  won't  disturb  my  medi- 
tations. He  returns  to  India  at  the  close  of  this 
year  or  at  the  beginning  of  next,  and  wishes  to 
see  as  much  of  me  as  possible  befox-e  we  part 
again  for  a  term  of  many  years.  We  are  strong- 
ly attached  to  each  other.  Brothers  are  seldom 
good  friends;  but  I  feel  for  him  just  that  senti- 
ment which  simple  people  call  brotherly  love. 
yVll  his  queer  ways  have  a  charm  for  me.  His 
deep  imperturbable  silence,  covering  as  it  does 
such  extraordinary  power,  is  far  more  pleasant 
to  me  than  the  talkativeness  of  other  men." 

We  suggested  that  he  would  like  to  see  Amy 
Reickart,  but  he  declined  having  an  interview 
with  her  then.  He  would  wait  a  day  or  two, 
and  when  he  wished  for  the  child's  com])any  he 
v.'ould  send  her  an  invitation  to  the  Abbey ; 
"and  possibly,"  he  added,  "when  she  conies 
you  ladies  will  do  me  the  honor  of  jiaying  me  a 
visit  also,  just  as  if  my  dear  mother  was  — ,  just 
as  you  did  last  year."  Of  course  Etty  and  I 
both  of  us  reiilied  that  it  would  give  us  pleasure 
to  accompany  our  pupil  to  his  house. 

At  the  close  of  the  week  Major  Watchit  came 
down — posting  in  a  handsome  carriage,  with  a 
valet  in  the  scat  at  the  back.  I  mention  thi^s 
trivial  circumstance  because  it  surprised  me  at 
the  time.  jNIajor  Watchit  was  an  officer  in  the 
Indian  army,  a  service  that  did  not  rank  so  high 
thirty  years  since  as  it  does  now;  and  from  that 
fact  I  had  inferred  that  Major  Watchit  was  not 
rich  enough  to  maintain  an  equipage,  and  to 
travel  in  the  style  of  a  millionaire.  Indeed,  I 
said  that  much  to  Etty  when,  instead  of  concur- 
ring with  me,  she  answered,  "Oh,  he  is  not  a 
poor  man,  but  has  a  fine  unincumbered  estate, 
lie  was  only  a  younger  son  when  he  went  to 


68 


OLIVr.  BLAKE'S  GOOD  "WOPxK. 


liuiia;  but  tlic  death  of  an  micle  and  an  cliler 
lirotlicr  altered  liis  circumstances  altogether. 
He,  however,  likes  the  service  too  M'cll  t(3  leave 
i'.  anil  lie  has  a  certain  prospect  of  the  higliest 
promotion  on  his  return  to  the  East." 

Etty  said  this  in  a  simple  enoupli  way.  hut  I 
vas  jiuzzled  to  account  for  her  being  so  Iji-im- 
ful  of  information  that  I  had  been  completely 
in  ignorance  of. 

"  How  did  you  know  all  this?"  I  asked. 

"Mr.  Petersham  told  me  so  last  year,"  she 
answered. 

"But  YOU  never  repeated  it  to  me  till  now. 
I  never  heard  that  Major  Watchit  was  rich." 

"If  I  did  not  speak  about  it,  it  was  because  I 
did  not  think  it  worth  mentioning." 

I  was,  however,  struck  at  the  time  by  the  fact 
that  Etty  had  never  communicated  her  knowl- 
edge of  IMajor  "NVatchit's  circumstances  to  me 
before,  seeing  that  she  had  attained  her  knowl- 
edge in  the  previous  autumn,  when  I  thought  we 
had  scarcely  a  secret  fi-om  each  other.  If  she 
liad  mentioned  last  week  or  last  month  as  t!ie 
(late  of  her  enlightenment  on  the  matter  in  ques- 
tion, I  should  have  felt  no  astonishment;  for 
since  then,  and  even  before  then,  I  had  lived  by 
myself,  and  siie  by  herself,  though  all  the  days 
lin-ough  wc  were  liolding  intercourse  with  each 
tither.  So  soon  and  so  completely  may  sisters, 
eating  at  one  table  and  sitting  by  one  hearth,  be 
severed ! 

On  Sunday  ]Mr.  Petersham  and  his  friend 
made  their  appearance  at  church  ;  but  beyond 
returning  their  salute  when  they  raised  tlieir 
hats  to  us  after  service  in  the  church-yard  we 
held  no  communication  with  them.  During  the 
following  day,  however,  a  note  came  to  Amy 
licickart  inviting  her  to  join  her  guardian's  lunch 
<  n  the  morrow.  Another  note  addressed  to  me, 
(•x]jrcssed  a  lio])e  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Petersham 
that  I  and  Etty  would  accompany  his  ward  to 
the  Abbey. 

"We  can  not  both  go,  Etty."  I  said.  "  One 
nf  us  must  remain  here  with  the  children,  as 
Tuesday  is  not  a  half-holiday." 

"Oh,  IMrs.  Gurley  will  take  the  lessons  for 
ns,"  suggested  Etty. 

"No — no,"  I  answered,  (irmly;  "Mrs.  Gnr- 
1p}-  has  once  or  twice  taken  charge  of  the  girls 
(-n  a  half-holiday,  hut  I  will  not  think  of  asking 
her  to  superintend  liie  school.  Do  you  accom- 
)  any  Amy.     You"ll  injuy  the  change." 

"No,  I  won't  seize  a  treat  in  that  way,  Tibby. 
J.et  us  draw  lots  for  it."  Here  are  two  pieei-s  of 
];apcr.  You  liold  tlie  .slijis  and  I'll  draw.  Come, 
the  long  one  wins  !" 

The  drawing  was  in  her  favc>r ;  so  after  morn- 
ing school  she  and  Amy  went  to  the  Alibey,  and 
returned  to  the  Cottage  for  our  six  o'clock  "tea," 
Mr.  Petersham  and  JMajor  ^Yatchit  aicom])any- 
ing  them  as  far  as  the  clim-ch.  During  the  next 
SIX  weeks  the  same  invitation  was  repeated  five 
limes  to  Amy,  and  the  child  on  each  occasion 
( f  being  so  summoned  went  to  her  guardian's 
house  attended  by  Etty  or  myself.  I  acted  as 
her  escort  only  twice ;  indeed  I  ])urposcly  ab- 
srained  iVom  discharging  that  d\ity  oftener,  for  I 
hncw  that  the  child  preferred  Etry  to  my.self, 
and  I  knew  that  Etty  liked  the  recreation  of  a 
vi.'.ir  to  the  great  house. 

I  therefore  saw  very  little  of  the  two  gentlc- 
r,.cn,  and  Etty,  as  I  imagined,  also  saw  less  of 


them  tlian  she  did  during  the  ])rcvions  autumn. 
They  never  stopj)ed  at  our  gate,  leaving  game 
for  us  and  exchanging  sentences  of  conversation 
as  they  did  in  the  last  shooting-season.  Of  course 
I  attributed  the  discontinuance  of  these  little ' 
courtesies  to  a  careful  consideration  for  ladies 
living  without  the  jjrotection  of  near  relatives  of 
tlie  sterner  sex.  In  jjast  days,  as  I  have  already 
stated,  the  attentions  were  always  offered  to  us 
under  Lady  Caroline's  name.  It  was,  therefore, 
only  appro))riate,  now  Lady  Caroline  was  no 
more,  that  the  acts  of  personal  courtesy  should 
come  to  an  end.  Whatever  we  might  miss  in 
one  way,  however,  Mr.  Petersham  showed  his 
anxiety  to  make  up  in  another.  The  game- 
keeper left  us  more  frequent  presents  of  game, 
and  the  gardener  lavished  upon  us  a  yet  great- 
er alnindance  of  flowers  and  fruit ;  and  already, 
in  consequence  of  Mv.  Petersham's  request,  the 
carpenters  and  bricklayers  were  busily  emjiloyed 
in  constructing  onr  green-house,  so  that  we  might 
have  it  in  perfect  order  and  efficiency  by  the 
commencement  of  the  cold  season. 

Still  tlie  presence  of  Mr.  Petersham  in  the 
Abbey  made  comparatively  little  diflfcrcnee  to 
my  life  ;  and  in  Etty  I  observed  nothing  that  led 
me  to  siqipose  she  found  the  tenor  of  her  days 
materially  diversified.  She  did  not  take  so  mucli 
interest  as  I  iii  the  erection  of  the  green-house  ; 
but  she  was  cheerful,  and  continued  with  un- 
broken regularity  her  evening  exercises  upon 
the  church  o'rgan. 

As  I  have  before  stated,  I  left  her  the  un- 
broken solitude  of  the  church  ;  but  as  I  walked 
in  the  moonlight  under  my  cottage  windows, 
after  having  ]iut  my  babes  to  bed,  I  would  listen 
to  the  mellow  tones  of  tlie  organ,  as  its  waves  of 
deep-rolling  sound  ]}assed  through  the  open  win- 
dows of  the  church,  and  through  the  assembly 
of  the  silent  tress,  and  rising  to  the  silver  heav- 
ens died  away  in  cadences  of  solemn  sweetness. 
More  than  once  I  marveled  how  Etty  managed 
to  win  such  magnificent  volumes  of  music  from 
I  lie  organ  which,  ever  and  again,  would  speak 
like  a  magnificent  living  creature — not  like  a 
mere  contiivance  of  human  ingenuit}*.  "She 
is  ha]ij)y  now,"  I  said,  on  several  diflercnt  occa- 
sions, "or  she  could  not  jilay  in  that  manner. 
She  must  be  hajjjiy.  If  her  heart  were  breaking 
those  sounds  coidd  fill  it  with  gladness.  Per- 
ha])S  she  is  thinking  of  Julian,  and,  sweeping  in 
triumph  over  all  the  temptations  that  sin'rotnul  her 
life,  is  resolving  to  love  him  throughout  her  days 
on  earth  with  all  her  soul  and  all  her  strength."' 

Ah  me !  even  then  the  tempter  was  by  her 
side ;  and  .'^he,  drinking  in  the  poison  of  subtle 
words,  was  forming  a  hideous  resolve  to  neglect 
her  duty  to  man  and  to  God! 

October  came  again,  and  with  it  the  warmth 
and  gladness  of  St.  Luke's  little  summer.  Om- 
Michaelmas  holidays  we  had,  at  the  request  of 
some  of  our  inq)ils'  parents,  postponed  for  a 
week  or  ten  days;  but  they  had  begun  and  were 
drawing  to  an  end.  Indeed  it  was  the  last  dny 
hut  one  of  the  holidays,  and  I  was  looking  for- 
ward with  the  a]ipetite  of  a  hungry  person  to  the 
refreshment  and  solace  of  "  another  quarter's" 
))rofitable  work,  when  all  the  course  of  my  life 
was  al)ru])tly  changed. 

I  took  tea  with  Etty  and  Amy  Reickart  in  the 
usual  way,  and  when  the  moon  came  uji  to  sur- 
vey the  tranquil  earth,  from  which  an  unusually 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  ^VOKK. 


C9 


abundant  harvest  had  been  gathered,  I  put  on 
my  garden  cloak  and  liat  for  my  customary 
saunter  and  meditations  bcoeatli  tlie  dark  arms 
of  our  cedar-tree.  I  was  in  tlic  garden  more 
than  two  hours,  and  when  I  re-entered  tlie  cot- 
tage I  remembered  with  surprise  that  the  music 
of  the  organ  had  not  been  a  ])art  of  my  enter- 
tainment. It  was  strange  ;  for  Etty  had  not  for 
weeks  omitted  to  visit  tlie  cluirch  iu  tlic  evening. 

Wiiat  could  slie  be  about  ? 

As  I  ascended  the  stairs  to  my  bedroom  I 
tapi)ed  at  her  door,  and  said,  "  Good-night, 
Etty,  darling  !  Are  you  well  ?  I  haven't  heard 
the  organ  to-night.  What  have  you  been  do- 
ing?" 

"Come  in,  Tibby,"  she  responded,  "and  kiss 
me." 

On  this  invitation  I  opened  tlic  door,  and  en- 
tering found  her  at  her  writing.  (She  was  writ- 
ing on  the  thin  paper  she  ordinarily  used  for  her 
letters  to  Julian.  I  was  glad  to  see  that.  Per- 
haps I  was  at  fault  in  thinking  that  she  looked 
happy  as  she  raised  her  dear  eyes  to  me,  and 
said,  "  I  am  busy  writing,  Tibby.  But  come 
and  give  me  a  kiss.  I  love  3'ou,  my  dear,  very 
much  to-night." 

"Love  me  so  always,  my  beautifiJ  sister  of 
whom  I  am  so  proud,"  I  answered. 

She  rose  and  embraced  me  very  tenderly. 
*'  But  you  may  not  make  me  jilay,  Tibby,"  she 
said,   "for  I  am  in  the  humor  to  write.'" 

I  took  the  hint,  saying  lightlj-,  as  I  left  the 
room,  "Etty,  tell  lain  that  his  old  friend  wishes 
him  to  remember  her  affectionately." 

I  meant  these  words  as  they  were  spoken — 
lovingly;  but  she  started  from  them  as  a  patient 
starts  from  an  electric  shock.  Her  emotion,  as 
far  as  its  outward  exhibition  is  concerned,  was 
not  of  two  seconds'  duration ;  but  it  taught  me 
a  cruel  lesson. 

We  exchanged  the  words  "  good-night"  again, 
and  then  I  went  to  my  room,  saying  to  myself, 
"This  is  a  torture  greater  than  I  can  endure. 
What !  I  may  not  even  mention  A/.*  name  to 
her — may  not  even  send  a  word  of  love  to  him  ! 
When  they  are  married  I  must  live  apart  from 
them.  Oh,  merciful  Father,  take  this  anguish 
from  me !" 

Was  it  accident,  or  was  it  that  guarding  and 
All-mighty  power  whoso  grandeur  is  best  seen  Ijy 
his  feelile  creatures  in  the  care  he  takes  of  "  lit- 
tle things,"  that  led  me  to  my  cabinet  of  sacred 
treasures,  and  caused  me  to  open  a  book  and 
turn  to  a  leaf  on  which  a  dried  rose  was  ])ressed 
and  fixed  ?  The  rose  had  been  given  to  nic!  by 
one  I  loved  well,  and  beneath  it  were  written 
these  words:  "The  lesson  of  the  rose.  There 
is  no  lot  in  life  so  stern,  and  cold,  and  hard,  but 
it  has  somewhere  a  warm  and  secret  corner  in 
whirh  human  affection  can  blossom." 

"Oil,  dear,  dear  grandfather!"  I  cried,  "can 
not  you  come  down  to  me  from  heaven  and 
teach  me  how  to  cliny  to  Etty  ?" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


TIIK    LAST    BLOW. 


"Run  and  call  Miss  Etty,  and  scold  her  for 
being  so  late,  my  dear  little  friend  Amy,"  I  said 
to  Amy  Reickarr,  as  we  met  in  tiie  breakfast- 
room  the  next  morning. 


Etty  was  usually  an  early  riser.  But  knowing- 
how  she  was  occupied  after  we  had  jiarted  on  thj 
previous  night,  I  had  no  dilheulty  in  finding  a 
reason  for  her  absence  from  the  breakfast-table, 
although  the  clock  on  the  mantle-piece  hail 
struck  half  past  eight  o'clock.  It  was  clear 
that  she  had  written  so  late  that  she  had  cilh<.>r 
overslept  herself,  or  was  with  design  prolonging 
her  rest  on  that  last  morning  of  the  holiday.-, 
in  order  that  she  might  begin  "the  quarter" 
with  a  full  stock  of  physical  vigor. 

"  I  have  tajjjied  at  her  door  six  times,  Mi>s 
Tree,"  said  Amy,  returning  from  her  mission, 
"and  she  doesn't  answer  me.  Shall  I  go  in? 
I  should  like." 

"Certainly.  Go  in..  Amy,  .and  shake  her 
well,  and  call  her  a  lazy,  naughty  girl,"  was  my 
answer. 

Amy  ran  off  in  high  glee  with  these  second 
instructions.  They  were  evidently  to  her  mind, 
for  she  was  Etty's  pet,  and  they  often  had  "a 
good  game  of  play"  together. 

"  Miss  Tree,  she  isn't  there !"  cried  Amy,  re- 
turning quickly  from  her  second  mission,  with 
an  expression  of  unusual  animation  and  guile- 
less excitement  in  her  pretty  "child's  foce," 
"and  I  don't  believe  she  has  been  in  bed.  At 
least  it's  all  just  as  neat  as  if  it  hadn't  been  used. 
The  counterpane  is  all  smooth,  without  a  rum- 
1  pie,  and  there  was  nothing  on  it  but  this  note." 
I  "Give  it  to  me,  child !"  I  exclaimed,  spring- 
ing forward  and  clutching  the  paper  in  a  man- 
ner so  unlike  my  usual  self  that  Amy  was  fright- 
ened, and  began  to  cry. 

Here  is  a  copy  of  the  letter  I  took  from  the 
child's  hand,  sealed  and  directed  to  me  : 

"Dear  Tibbt, — You  will  not  see  me  again 
for  a  long  time,  perhaps  not  for  many  years. 
As  to  whither  I  am  going,  for  what  object,  and 
under  what  conditions,  I  can  not  tell  you  more 
than  you  will  learn  from  the  circumstances  of 
my  departure.  This  reserve  is  forced  upon  me, 
and  is  necessary. 

"  Wait  patiently,  iear  Tibby,  and  think  of  me 
as  kindly  as  you  can,  until  I  may  tell  you  all  the 
])artieulars  of  my  conduct — all  tlie  considerations 
that  have  induced  me  to  leave  you  in  a  manner 
tluit  you  will  be  tempted  to  stigmatize  as  heart- 
less and  dislinnorablo. 

"  I  have  already  written  to  Julian,  telling  him 
tliat  I  can  never  be  his  wife.  The  step  that  I 
iiave  now  taken  shows  that  I  never  really  loved 
him — indeed,  shows  that  I  am  incajiable  of  lov- 
ing him  as  he  deserves.  If  I  could  persuade 
myself  that  he  would  forgive  the  wrong  I've  done 
him  and — (yes,  I  will  write  it) — the  shame  I  have 
brought  upon  him,  and  so  far  be  led  by  the  power 
of  old  associations  and  the  memory  of  the  strong 
friendship  of  his  boyhood  as  to  confer  on  you  tli-! 
affection  which  I  have  rejected,  I  should  linve 
one  consolation  in  a  life  which,  however  brilliant 
it  may  eventually  be,  will  have  many  sorrows, 
much  bitter  humiliation,  and  countless  hours  i,f 
regret. 

"  Dear  Tibby,  do  think  charitably  of  me.  Try 
to  remember  only  the  best  of  me.  If  I  were  like 
you,  you  would  have  nothing  but  what  is  best  to 
remember. 

••  I  will  write  to  you,  occasionally,  from  abroad. 
But  you  will  only  seldom  hear  from  me — not  oft- 
ener  than  once  a  vear.  Etty." 


70 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


I  was  still  standing,  dizzy  from  the  first  read- 
ing of  this  letter,  when  my  hoiisc-maid  entered 
with  a  frightened  look  and  told  mc  that  Mr. 
Petersham  was  in  the  drawing-room  and  wished 
to  see  me  instantly. 

I  had  not  had  an  interview  alone  with  him  in 
that  room  since  the  day  when  he  called  to  ar- 
range abont  i)laeing  Amy  Kcickart  witl)  me.  It 
was  strange  1  should  remember  that,  as  I  entered 
the  drawing-room  on  the  present  occasion.  It 
was  strange  that,  as  I  looked  on  the  mourning 
in  wiiieh  he  was  now  attired,  I  should  remember 
every  article  of  the  lighter  costume  he  then  wore. 
Even  still  more  nnaccountable  it  may  ajipear  to 
some,  that  e\er  and  again,  while  I  spoke  to  ]Mr. 
Petersham,  my  scared  eyes  a]ipeared  to  me  to 
rest  on  Lady  Caroline  (dead,  poor  lady,  and  at 
rest),  sitting  on  the  sofa. 

I  can  remember  almost  every  thing,  even  the 
most  trivial  and  unim])ortant  matters  connected 
with  that  interview,  save  the  exact  words  spoken 
to  me  by  iMr.  Petersham,  (if  them  I  can  only 
remember  the  purport.  He  told  mc  that  on  be- 
ing roused  by  his  servant  that  morning  at  an 
early  hour  he  had  learned  that  Major  Watchit, 
without  having  communicated  his  intention  of 
leaving  the  Abbey  either  to  him  or  to  the  house- 
keeper, had  taken  his  dejiarture  on  the  jjrevious 
night,  shortly  after  the  family  had  retired  to  rest, 
lie  and  the  Major  scjiarated  for  the  night  at 
half  ])ast  ten,  and  the  Major  left  the  Abbey  in  his 
traveling  carriage  shortly  after  midnight,  four 
post-horses  having  been  brought  to  the  Abbey, 
for  the  jNIajor's  service,  from  the  Blue  Boar. 
Surprised  at  the  intelligence,  JMr.  Petersham 
had  sent  for  the  landlord  of  the  inn,  and  had 
learned  from  him  that  the  ])Ost-hoys  first  con- 
veyed the  Major  to  the  great  gate  of  the  park, 
near  the  church,  and  there  remained  for  more 
than. an  hour — the  carriage  and  the  horses  being 
drawn  np  under  the  cover  of  the  trees,  and  the 
Major  himself  standing  at  the  heads  of  the  lead- 
ers. At  the  expiration  of  from  an  hour  to  an 
hour  and  a  quarter  a  lady  came  into  the  avenue, 
through  the  gate  from  the  i*)ad,  closely  wrapped 
in  a  dark  traveling  cloak  and  with  a  veil  drawn 
over  her  face.  A  few  words  ]  assed  between 
Major  Watchit  and  tiic  lady,  when  he  handed 
her  into  the  carriage  and  took  a  seat  by  her  side. 
As  soon  as  the  Major's  valet  had  shut  the  car- 
riage and  s])rung  into  his  seat  behind,  "the  boys" 
(who  had  not  np  till  that  time  learned  their  des- 
tination) were  ordered  to  make  all  sjiced  along 
th.e  London  road  to  Short field-Br.zzard.  On 
reaching  Sliortfield-I'uzzard,  frc-h  horses  anil 
hoys  were  taken,  those  in  the  service  of  tlK^  land- 
lord of  the  Blue  Boar  being  dismissed  by  the  val- 
et, with  an  additional  crown-])iecc  for  each  boy. 

The  post-boys,  on  being  examined  by  Mr.  Pe- 
tersham, stated  that  they  eouKl  not  stale  [josi- 
tively  who  the  lady  was,  but  they  believed  she 
was  one  of  the  Miss  Trees — the  tall  and  beauti- 
ful Miss  Tree.  The  lady's  height  and  figure, 
which  distinguished  her  from  any  oilier  lady  in 
or  near  Laughton,  contrii)uted  to  tiuir  forma- 
tion and  adoption  of  this  susjiieion;  but  they 
were  chieily  led  to  tlieir  oiiinion  by  the  gossiji  of 
the  town,  and  hy  their  knowledge  that  Major 
Watchit  had  of  late  been  in  the  habit  of  meeting 
ISIiss'J'ree  in  tlie  chuieh  and  playing  the  organ 
with  JK'r. 

The  laudlonl  of  Uie  Blue  Boar,  on  being  re- 


examined by  Mr.  Petersham  as  to  the  rumors 
mentioned  by  his  boys,  stated  that  it  was  well 
known  in  the  town  that  Major  Watchit  had  fre- 
quently played  the  organ  at  the  time  the  youn- 
ger Miss  Tree  was  accustomed  to  practice  on  the 
instrument,  and  while  that  lady  was  in  the 
church.  There  had  in  consequence  been  much 
idle  gossip  among  his  customers;  hut  he  (the 
landlord)  knowing  the  high  character  the  ladv 
bore,  and  that  she  had  been  made  known  to 
Major  Watchit  by  Lady  Caroline  Petersham, 
and  was  moreover  a  lady  highly  esteemed  by  all 
the  gentry  of  the  town,  had  discountenanced  such 
impertinent  conversation. 

I  can  recall  that  Mr.  Petersham  uttered  some 
vague  words,  w  hieh  led  me  to  exclaim,  "  Oh,  Sir, 
you  can  not  sus])ect  that  I  You  can  not  suppose 
my  sister  would  be  so  base — so  unutterably  wick- 
ed!" I  remember,  too,  that  he  tried  to  soothe 
my  agitation,  endeavoring  to  reassure  me  w'ith 
various  futile  words  of  solace,  telling  me  that 
society  would  exempt  me  from  all  blame,  that  I 
was  an  object  of  commiseration,  that  he  ■wtnild 
still  continue  to  give  me  his  countenance,  and 
hoped  that  I  would  still  lake  charge  of  his  ward. 
I  remember  feeling  insulted  by  these  paltry  sug- 
gestions. 

More  I  can  not  recall,  save  that  I  was  utter- 
ing some  incoherent  words  of  .shame  and  anger, 
when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gurley  entered  the  room, 
and  Miu  Gurley  clasped  me  in  her  arms. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

FLIGHT. 

Was  I  right  in  christening  this  book  "Fact"' 
— stern,  hard  fact — breaking  down  every  crea- 
tion of  ho]'e  in  wiiich  my  sjiirit  had  sought  refuge 
from  its  tr(uible  ?  Or  was  I  wrong  not  to  call  it 
"  Shame  ?" 

Dear  Mrs.  Gurley  remained  hy  my  side  in  the 
first  hours  of  my  anguish  and  humiliation,  o])- 
])Osing  her  jnire  womanly  goodness  to  all  the 
shafts  that  idle  curiosity  aimed  at  mc.  She  did 
not  essay  to  comfort  mc  with  her  lijis,  but  con- 
tented herself  will)  shielding  me  from  ]:ain — l>y 
action.  I  do  not  think  she  uttered  half  a  dozen 
sentences  throughout  the  whole  of  that  horrible 
day,  but  ]iermitte(l  me  to  lie  u])on  the  sofa  un- 
disturbed by  idle  words.  She  busied  herself  at 
my  writing-tlcsk  with  ]ien  and  ]iaper,  sitting  with 
noiseless  delermiuation  at  her  work,  and  only 
now  and  tiicn  turning  upon  mc  a  look  of  ti  nder 
but  unobtrusive  concern.  "The  notes  to  tiie 
]iu])ils'  friends,  ])ost])oning  the  reassembling  of 
tlie  school  till  further  notice,"  she  said,  curtly, 
on  rising  from  the  desk  (after  two  hours'  work) 
with  a  handful  of«  letters.  Having  disiiatcjieil 
the  letters,  she  returned  and  look  a  chair  by  ihe 
window,  from  which  she  conld  command  a  view 
of  tlie  entrance  of  ihe  garden,  and  see  every  one 
who  apjiroached  the  house.  Of  course  the  call- 
ers at  tlic  Cottage  were  frequent  that  morning; 
but  none  of  tliem,  save  Mrs.  Gurley,  apjiroached 
my  room.  Noiselessly  she  left  mc  at  the  aji- 
))roach  of  every  visitor,  and  having  firmly  kept 
off"  the  intruder  by  the  brief  annonncemont  that 
"I  was  loo  ill  to  be  dislnrbed,"  ri'lnrncd  to  her 
post  of  silent  observation.  Tlie  hours  jiassed  on, 
and  the  sun   was  beginning  to   decline  in  the 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


71 


west,  throwing  a  soft  splendor  over  the  trees  and 
water  of  the  park,  when  the  kind  lady  brought 
me  a  small  tumbler  of  liot  negus,  and  said, 
"Drink  tliat,  dear.  You  may  trust  me.  I  am 
not  a  troublesome  nurse."  It  was  impossible  to 
refuse  obedience  to  a  request  so  preferred ;  and 
in  docile  fashion,  like  a  child,  I  drank  otf  the 
compound  and  was  revived  by  it.  "  Amy  Reick- 
art — where  is  she?"  I  asked,  a  dull  sense  of  so- 
cial responsibility  coming  over  me  for  the  first 
time  since  I  had  received  the  awful  news.  "At 
my  house,  dear.  She's  with  my  children,  and 
will  be  well  taken  care  of.  You  have  no  busi- 
ness to  think  about.  I  and  Gurley  will  manage 
every  thing  for  you."  'j^fus  did  the  merciful 
woman  think  for  me  and  act  for  me. 

I  remained  shut  up  and  strictly  defended  from 
intrusion  for  two  days,  during  which  time  I  be- 
came so  calm  that  I  was  astonished  at  myself. 
I  recognized  all  the  aspects  of  my  calamity,  and 
I  looked  at  them  steadily,  even  as  I  would  ad- 
vise every  woman  to  face  her  sorrow  and  exam- 
ine it,  not  shrinking  from  it  like  a  coward.  I 
asked  myself  in  silence  —  What  could  I  do? 
What  might  I  do  ?  What  ought  I  to  do  ?  What 
should  I  do  ?  And  I  answered  all  these  ques- 
tions for  myself  to  the  best  of  my  ability ;  arftl 
having  answered  them,  I  decided  on  the  course  I 
would  adopt,  having  frequently  on  my  knees,  in 
earnest  prayer,  asked  God  to  guide,  protect,  and 
help  me. 

On  the  third  day  Mrs.  Gurley  left  me  (as  the 
afternoon  wore  on  toward  the  evening),  promis- 
ing that  she  would  see  me  early  the  next  day. 
Ere  she  departed  I  kissed  her,  and  made  her 
see — as  far  as  poor  feeble  words  and  looks  could 
do  so — how  deeply  I  was  moved  by  her  good- 
ness. 

"To-morrow,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  sliall  bring 
my  little  girls  with  me.  It  will  do  you  good  to 
kiss  them  again."  At  which  womanly  speech, 
so  full  of  poetry,  so  eloquent  of  that  whieli  ev- 
ery good  woman  knows  to  be  the  guiding  senti- 
ment of  a  good  woman's  heart,  I  almost  broke 
down  ;  when  Mrs.  Gurley,  seeing  my  fortitude 
so  severely  tried,  abruptly  left  me. 

That  evening  I  wrote  two  letters  in  the  follow- 
ing order : 

No.  1. 

"Dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gurley, — I  shall 
have  left  Laughton  by  the  night  -  mail  some 
hours  ere  you  read  this.  You  will  not  be  angry 
with  me  for  thus  taking  leave  of  you.  I  can 
not  live  in  Laughton  or  in  any  place  where  my 
history  and  shame  are  known.  I  am  well  as- 
sured that  every  one  would  be  very,  very  kind 
to  me;  but  I  could  not  bear  their  kindness — 
even  your  sympathy,  were  I  near  you,  would  be 
torture  to  me.  In  London  I  shall  seek  for  some 
honest  employment  by  which  I  may  earn  my 
bread  so  long  as  it  may  seem  right  to  my  Heav- 
enly Father  to  keep  me  here ;  and  I  trust  that 
the  way  may  be  shown  me  to  do  more  good  to 
my  fellow-creatures  than  in  my  careless  and  hap- 
j)y  cliildhood  I  have  ever  done  them. 

"Dear  jNIr.  Gurley,  I  leave  to  your  strong 
friendsliip  for  me  the  task  of  settling  my  affairs 
in  Laugliton.  ily  debts  are  very  few,  amount- 
ing in  all  to  not  a  tenth  of  wliat  the  furniture  of 
the  Cottaue  will  sell  for.  Be  good  enough  tJ 
dispose  of  the  furniture,   and  afier  jiaying  t'ac 


tradesmen  their  bills,  place  the  rest  of  the  money 
obtained  by  the  sale  to  my  account  at  the  bank, 
wliere  I  already  liave  (thanks  to  your  goodness  !) 
nujrc  than  £300.  The  money  can  remain  wliere 
it  is.  Half  of  it  belongs  to  poor  Etty,  and  per- 
haps slie  will  one  day  need  the  whole.  Oil,  God 
have  mercy  on  her  and  jirotect  her! 

"For  myself — dear  good  friends,  I  beg  you 
to  dismiss  anxiety  for  nic.  I  have  an  ample 
supply  of  money.  If  ever  I  should  need  more 
than  my  labor  supplies  me  with,  I  promise  to 
write  to  you  and  ask  you  to  remit  me  some  of 
my  store.  I  will  write  to  you  occasionally  to 
assure  you  of  my  well-doing ;  and  if  ever  I  re- 
ally stand  in  need  of  a  friend  in  London,  I  will 
apply  to  Mrs.  Gurley's  cousin  in  Oxford  Street, 
whose  address  I  have  by  me.  Don't  condemn 
me  for  my  flight.  You  know  I  am  not  ungrate- 
ful to  you.  But  I  must  bury  myself  until  tliis 
dark  cloud  has  passed  away  from  the  eyes  of  all 
who  know  me. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Gurley,  if  ever  you  are  sad,  by 
day  or  by  night,  remember  your  kindness  to  luj 
in  the  days  of  my  affliction.  Oh!  dear,  dear 
woman,  the  angels  round  the  throne  of  Heaven 
have  recorded  it !     God  bless  you. 

"  Your  loving,  grateful  friend, 

"TiBBY  Tree." 

No.  2. 

"Dear  Julian, — The  same  mail  that  brings 
you  this  letter  brings  you  another  from  my  poor, 
wretched  sister  who  has  separated  herself  from 
you  forever,  and  from  me  also  forever,  unless 
misery  that  I  dare  neither  name  nor  think  of 
sliould  make  her  need  again  the  sister  she  has 
tied  from.  Ferha])S  she  may  have  told  vou  more 
of  her  movements  than  she  has  imparted  to  me. 
All  I  know  of  tliem  is  gained  from  the  letter  she 
left  for  me  to  read  after  her  flight  (a  copy  of 
which  I  send  you),  and  from  the  meagre  inform- 
ation of  the  servants  who  aided  lier  in  her  clan- 
destine departure  with  Major  Watchit. 

"Dear  Julian,  in  my  present  deep  horror  of 
shame  I  think  more  of  your  misery  than  her  sin 
or  my  own  disgrace.  My  conscience  tells  me 
that  since  you  left  us  I  have  neither  overlooked, 
nor  neglected,  nor  omitted  any  thing  the  per- 
formance of  which,  or  attention  to  which,  ap- 
peared to  me  likely  to  keep  her  love  of  you  alive 
in  her  heart,  and  to  make  her  worthy  of  you. 
Indeed,  I  have  been  your  true,  zealous,  faithful 
friend,  even  as  I  was  in  our  childhood,  ere  we 
spoke  together  in  Lymm  Hall  Gardens.  Do  be- 
lieve this  of  me.  I  implore  you  to  believe  this 
of  me. 

"In  a  few  hours  I  shall  leave  Laughton.  I 
could  not  endure  in  my  degradation  the  jiity  of 
those  who  have  known  me  in  my  honor.  What 
consolation  would  it  b3  to  me  that  the  charity 
of  my  old  friends  and  new  acquaintances  ex- 
empted me  from  the  ignominy  of  ])articipatiou 
in,  or  connivance  at,  my  sister's  guilt  ?  How 
could  it  comfort  me  to  know  that  the  finger  of 
scorn  avoided  me  only  that  it  might  ]>oint  the 
more  directly  at  the  poor  misguided  child,  whose 
shame  is  mine,  even  as  her  suft'erings,  if  I  ever 
hear  of  them,  will  be  shared  by  me.  I  intend 
to  seek  tlic  means  of  livelihood  in  London,  where 
I  shall  enjoy  the  best  chance  of  escaping  the  rec- 
(ignitii)n  of  tliosc  who  have  ever  heard  of  me,  or 
Laugliton,  or  dear  Farnham  Cobb.     When  you 


72 


OLIVE  IJLAKES  GOOD  WORK. 


return  to  England  do  not  try  to  hunt  nic  out. 
If  yon  discovered  mc  I  sliould  shrink  from  you 
j\nd  feel  for  you  as  an  enemy.  Forget,  Julian, 
the  little  girl  wlio  played  with  you  in  your  boy- 
hood, and  the  woman  who  shared  your  oonli- 
denees  in  early  manhood.  Both  for  me  and  for 
yourself  it  is  right  that  you  should,  by  a  strong 
clfort  of  your  mighty  will,  wi])e  out  the  ])ast  from 
your  memory.  You  ean  make  for  yourself  an- 
other and  brighter  career  than  any  you  ho])ed 
for  with  my  sister  for  your  wife.  The  God  who 
orders  all  things  for  us,  and  who  even  in  this 
work  of  sorrow  has  a  benetieent  purpose,  ean 
still  lead  your  ste])s  to  gladness.  But  if  all  your 
after-days  here  below  are  darkened — dear,  dear 
Julian,  bear  in  your  mind  that  the  longest  life 
here  is  but  a  brief  sojourn,  and  that  when  the  toil 
and  anguish  of  the  Cliristian's  saddest  lot  have 
terminated  he  goes  home  to  a  loving  Father, 
who  will,  even  as  His  jiromises  arc  sure,  comfort 
him  and  make  him  glad  forever. 

'"Your  old  faithful  friend, 

"TiKLiY  Tree." 

Having  written  these  letters  I  jjackcd  up,  in 
a  small  case,  a  few  articles  of  wearing  a|iparel, 
and  selected  from  my  limited  wardrobe  a  dura- 
ble dress  of  black  merino,  which  I  had  relin- 
quished in  the  preceding  spring  when  I  cast 
aside  the  mourning  dresses  made  in  respect  for 
my  dear  grandfather.  I  furbished  up  also  my 
old  black  bonnet  and  winter  cloak  of  black  cloth. 

These  ])reparations  acconijilished,  I  waited  ])a- 
tiently  till  the  clock  in  the  church-tower  struck 
the  half  hour  after  midnight.  The  maids  after 
bringing  me  my  supper,  according  to  Mrs.  Gur- 
ley's  directions,  had  retired  to  rest  three  hours 
before,  and  the  Cottage  was  thrc^ghout  as  tran- 
quil as  the  slacp  of  innocence.  With  a  candle 
in  my  hand  I  crept  through  the  rooms,  taking  a 
last  look  at  the  little  house  and  the  vacant  bed- 
rooms ;  Etty's  deserted  bed,  w  ith  the  jnllow  on 
which  she  had  so  often  laid  her  golden  hair;  the 
dining-room,  with  a  crayon  sketch  of  Etty  on 
the  wall ;  the  school-room,  with  the  arm-chair 
in  which  Etty  used  to  sit  at  the  head  of  her 
class;  the  little  kitchen  in  which  Etty  would 
sometimes  make  herself  so  hap]iy  with  the  bus- 
tle of  housewifery.  Through  all  th'ese  rooms  I 
went,  gazing  at  them  sadly.  Then  1  returned 
to  my  bedroom,  and  having  arrayed  myself  in 
deep  mourning,  already  mentioned,  I  consider- 
ed whether  I  had  forgotten  any  thing.  Yes. 
There  were  two  things  I  would  take  with  me, 
out  of  my  cabinet  of  treasures — Juliaifs  letters, 
and  the  book  in  whicli  I  had  put  ''the  rose." 
All  the  other  things  in  the  cabinet  jMrs.  Gurley 
might  inspect,  and  do  what  she  thought  right 
with  them.  But  Ids  letters  (the  letters  I  had  de- 
termined to  give  to  her  on  her  next  birthday)  I 
would  still  keep.  And  I  would  not  give  uj)  tiic 
les.son  of  the  rose.  "There  is  no  lot  in  life  so 
stern,  and  cold,  and  hard  but  it  has  s(mie\vherc 
a  \varm  and  secret  corner  in  which  human  ati'ec- 
lion  can  blossom!"  Surely  I  needed  the  com- 
fort of  that  lesson  more  than  ever! 

There  was  just  enough  nmii)i)ropriated  room 
in  the  i)acking-casc  for  the  letters  and  tiie  man- 
uscrij)t  book.  Having  put  them  in  the  case  and 
duly  locked  it,  I  .secretly — as  secretly  as  Etty  had 
departed  a  few  nights  before — left  the  Cottage. 
Tiie  night-mail,  I  knew,  changed  horses  at  the 


Blue  Boar  at  two  o'clock :  so  I  had  ample  time 
to  walk  the  mile  l)ctween  the  cottage  and  the 
tavern.  I  found,  however,  my  packing-case 
heavier  thati  1  had  anticipated.  Its  weiglit  com- 
pelled me  to  "change  hands"  frequently,  and 
made  very  accei)table  the  brief  rest  I  indulged 
in  while  I  posted  my  letters — No.  1  and  No.  2 — 
at  tho  ]iost-ofHce  in  the  High  Street. 

When  I  reached  the  Blue  Boar  the  night- 
mail  was  due,  but  it  had  not  arrived.  I  entered 
the  booking-ollice  aiul  asked  if  I  could  have  an 
inside  place.  The  clerk  stared  at  me  with  sur- 
lirisc,  as  he  well  might,  for  he  doubtless  knew 
mc;  and  then  answcax-d  that  be  could  not  an- 
swer me  till  the  arri;#l  of  the  coach.  As  he  was 
still  sjicaking  the  mail  dashed  up,  and  the  clerk 
ran  out  to  see  whether  there  was  a  vacant  place 
f>ir  me.  To  my  great  relief  I  heard  the  coach- 
man respond,  with  an  cxclanuition  of  anger,  that 
he  hadn't  a  single  inside  jiassenger.  That  was 
a  comfort.  So  I  paid  my  fare — £2  lO.s. — out  of 
the  £25  I  had  iir  my  pocket,  and,  having  in- 
duced the  guard  to  place  my  ])acking-case  un- 
der tiie  seat,  I  slipped  into  the  coach,  and  throw- 
ing myself  back  in  a  dark  corner,  hoped  to  es- 
cajie  observation. 

"Between  "Tiie  Cottage"  and  the  Blue  Boar  I 
had  not  encountered  a  single  individual  of  any 
kind  whatever.  Not  a  foot  was  to  be  heard  in 
the  High  Street  save  my  own ;  and  the  clouds, 
hanging  in  thick  masses  above,  effectually  cur- 
tained the  moon  and  stars.  At  the  booking-of- 
fice, however,  there  was  some  bustle  with  the 
hostlers,  and  stable-helpers,  and  two  or  three 
young  men  who  stood  about  smoking  cigars. 

Sitting  in  the  coach,  I  listened  with  a  beating 
heart  to  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  feet  as  they 
came  from  or  entered  the  yard  of  the  Blue  Boar, 
and  to  the  conversation  of  the  coachman  with 
the  guard,  office-clerk,  and  loungers.  The  brill- 
iant lamps  of  the  mail  and  the  lanterns  of  the 
hostlers  enabled  me,  sitting  in  the  darkness,  to 
discern  all  that  went  on  at  the  door  of  the  hotel, 
and  gave  a  picturesque  effect  to  the  pavement, 
and  the  tavern  walls,  and  the  people — all  whicli 
objects,  even  then,  I  remarked. 

"It'll  be  a  rough  night,"  said  the  coachman, 
drawing  on  his  huge  white  over-coat,  abounding 
in  cajjes. 

"Ay  ;  but  it  was  a  splendid  sunset  and  even- 
ing,'' said  the  guard. 

"That  won't  make  the  night  any  the  better, 
or  the  morning  either,"  replied  the  coachman, 
surlily.      "Who's  inside  ?" 

"One  passenger — a  lady,"  rejilicd  the  guard. 

"Come;  no  old  joke  like  that." 

"Nonsense,  mate,  I  don't  mean  the  mad  wo- 
man. Y'ou  know  there  is  a  passenger.  And  so 
I  answ'cr  to  your  question — one  small  lady,  with 
a  small  leather  jiacking-case." 

"  Umjih !  that  all  ?"  answered  the  surly  coach- 
man.    "Better  luck  then  for  my  horses." 

As  he  said  this  the  coachman  and  guard  went 
together  into  the  Blue  Boar  for  a  glass,  and  dur- 
ing their  absence  I  heard  the  following  conver- 
sation carried  on  in  mysterious  mnttcrings  and 
whispers,  by  three  voices,  close  to  the  coach- 
window — the  state  of  the  atmosjihere  testifying 
that  the  voices  were  intimately  connected  with  a 
strong  smell  of  tobacco  smoke. 

First  voice.  "  Nonsense ;  yer  caarn't  mean  it  ?" 

Second  voice.  "  Brought  all  Jicr  luggage  her- 


OLIVE  ULAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


73 


self,  I  tell  you — paid  her  fare  for  Loiulon,  £2 
10s.,  just  as  if  she  could  buy  the  wliolo  coun- 
ty. And  now  she's  off  to  meet  her  precious  sis- 
ter." 

Third  voice.  "  Well,  I'm  blowcd.  Can't  make 
it  out.  Who'd  ha'  thought  it?  Any  how  the 
money  isn't  drawn.  There  warn't  no  check  pre- 
sented at  four  o'clock  this  afternoon." 

First  voice.  "That's  a  rummy  go.  Surely 
they  won't  think  the  swag  beneath  their  no- 
tice." 

^''econJ  yotce  (bitterly).  "Pooh!  I  know  what's 
what.  That  money'U  all  be  drawn  fast  enough. 
Leave  them  alone  for  that.  Didn't  I  tell  you 
that's  how  she  would  run?  didn't  I  say — 'Keep 
your  eye  on  the  night-mail  for  one  week,  and 
you'll  see  what  you  will  see  ?'  There  were  some 
as  laughed.  But  you  see  I've  caught  my  bird — 
Ah!  she's  just  as  bad  as  the  pretty  one." 

Third  voice.  "She's  worse:  for  she  isn't  pret- 
ty, and  hasn't  in  consequence  no  temptation  to 
go  wrong." 

First  voice.  " Caarn't  we  see  her?  I  should 
like  a  sight  on  her  afoi'e  she  goes." 

Second  voice.  "  Wait  a  moment,  stupid !  The 
guard  '11  be  here  directly  with  a  light." 

Third  voice  (triumphantly).  "Well,  we're 
ahead  of  the  town — respecting  the  latest  intelli- 
gence.    How  mad  Tom  Chivers  '11  be  !" 

The  second  voice  was  right.  In  another  min- 
ute the  guard  came  and  put  a  lamp  into  the 
coach. 


"  I  would  rather  be  in  the  dark,"  I  said  hur- 
riedly to  the  guard. 

"It's  against  orders.  Miss,"  he  answered,  civ- 
illy. "I  should  like  to  oblige  you,  but  my  or- 
ders arc,  always  to  light  the  inside  wlien  there's 
an  inside  jjassengcr." 

Of  course  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  consent 
to  the  inconvenient  arrangement.  The  lamp 
was  a  dim  one,  but  it  was  sufficient  for  the  jjur- 
pose  of  the  possessors  of  the  voices,  who  crowd- 
ed round  the  window  and  stared  at  me  as  though 
I  were  a  famous  criminal.  In  one  of  them  I  rec- 
ognized the  undcr-clcrk  of  the  Laughton  bank. 
Fortunately  my  veil  was  a  thick  one,  and  I  had 
not  to  endure  tlnjir  impertinent  curio^ity  long, 
for  at  the  very  moment  that  they  were  gratified 
with  "a  sight"  of  me  the  rain  fell  down  in  tor- 
rents, and  swept  them  away  like  leaves ;  and  be- 
fore the  storm  had  abated  the  four  horses  of  the 
night-mail  were  galloping  out  of  the  town  on 
the  London  road. 

The  last  jiouse  of  any  importance  at  the  Lon- 
don end  of  the  straggling  town  was  the  gram- 
mai--school.  where  Julian  and  his  brother  had 
received  their  education.  As  the  night-mail 
rattled  under  its  avails  I  recalled  how,  in  the 
previous  JNIid-summer  holidays,  I  had  obtained 
access  to  the  deserted  play-ground,  and  had 
found,  cut  in  the  red  brick  of  the  boundary  wall, 
the  inscription  "  Jnlianus  Gower  fecit  hoc,  May 
22,  18 — ."  He  had  cut  the  inscription  when  he 
was  quite  a  little  fellow. 


BOOK   IV. 


PART  THE  FIRST  OF  A  WOMAN'S  STORY :— BEING  THE  NAR- 
RATIVE OF  OLIVE  BLAKE'S  SIN. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A    SOCIAL   QUESTION. 

There  has  of  late  years  been  more  than  an 
average  force  of  satire  directed  against  merce- 
nary marriages,  and  those  measures  which,  in 
an  artificial  state  of  life,  parents,  anxious  to  se- 
cui'e  the  happiness  of  their  offspring,  employ  to 
secure  their  daughters  against  the  miseries  of 
ill-conceived  and  imprudent  matrimonial  alli- 
ances. In  some  eases  this  satire  is  a  protest 
against  the  conduct  of  people  of  the  opulent 
classes,  who  object  to  unite  themselves  with  in- 
dividuals of  humble  rank  and  necessitous  condi- 
tion. Sometimes  it  seems  to  be  little  more  than 
the  petulant  arrogance  of  young  men,  smarting 
under  the  humiliating  pressure  of  discontented 
poverty,  and  insolently  proclaiming  their  natu- 
ral right  to  lead  off,  as  wives,  ladies  whose  nat- 
ural and  adventitious  endowments  render  them 
of  distinction  in  the  society  of  the  distinguished. 
Occasionally  it  presents  itself  with  more  modes- 
ty, and  adopts  language  closely  resembling  that 
of  connnon  sense.  The  lesson,  however,  that 
it  woidd  teach,  whether  the  language  of  mere 
bombast,  or  the  sarcasms  of  wounded  vanity,  or 
the  sim])le  i)hrascs  of  childish  sentimentality  be 
employed,  is  always  this — that  viariii(;es  de  con- 
venance  are  detestable  compacts — detestable  be- 


cause they  set  at  defiance  the  grandest  and  most 
beautiful  laws  of  nature — and  thrice  detestable 
bectause  their  resitlt  is  an  enormous  harvest  of 
hutnan  wretchedness. 

I  nutst  beg  leave  to  refuse  my  assent  to  this 
general  proposition. 

I  am  not  sure  that  viariacjes  de  couvennncf  htq 
arrangements  to  be  discountenanced.  Looking 
for  facts  from  which  I  may  generalize,  I  read 
(and  I  do  not  blush  to  own  it)  the  i-evelations  of 
tlie  Divorce  Court — where  broken  vows,  brutal 
passions,  satanic  vengeance,  vile  desires,  loath- 
some appetites,  contemptible  caprice,  petty  pee- 
vishness, and  all  the  various  forms  of  evil  that 
occasionally  fester  under  the  fitir  exterior  of  do- 
mestic life,  are  put  before  the  eyes  of  vulgar 
spectators  in  all  their  hideous  and  repulsive  re- 
ality. I  read  these  revelations,  carefully  study- 
ing the  histories,  so  far  as  I  can  arrive  at  them, 
of  the  unhajipy  creatures  whose  crimes  and 
wrongs  are  held  up  to  ins])ection,  and  systemat- 
ically endeavoring  to  trace  to  its  source  the 
moral  defilement  thus  cxiiibited.  But  it  is  only 
seldom  that  my  search  for  "tiie  beginning"  leads 
me  to  tlie  kind  of  matrimonial  union  against 
which  our  novel-writing  m(u-alists  arc  so  severe. 
On  the  whole,  the  love-match,  witli  its  bower  of 
bliss,  seems  to  bo  a  more  frequent  commence- 
ment than  the  mariage  de  convenance,  with  its  care- 


74 


OLIVE  BLAKES  GOOD  WORK. 


fully-proiiarcd  settlements,  to  those  painful  trag- 
edies wliieh  close  with  jtulfjnicnt  in  a  law  court 
and  sensation  on  tiie  jiart  of  outraged  society. 

Fre(]uently,  of  course,  tlic  ordinary  matrimo- 
nial alliance,  which  ]\Iay-Fair  practically  ap- 
j)lauds  and  theoretically  condemns,  lias  an  nn- 
hapjiy  conclusion.  But  do  not  other  unions  turn 
out  ill  ?  And  is  it  not  more  than  probable  that 
the  misery  of  many  of  these  loudly-assailed 
"family  arrangements"  which  do  result  in  dis- 
aster is  to  be  attributed  not  so  much  to  the  na- 
ture of  the  compact,  as  to  the  fact  that  the  par- 
ties to  them  have  not  from  the  outset  of  life  been 
soberly  and  appropriately  trained  for  entering 
into  them?  1  do  not  venture  to  make  any  de- 
cided answer  to  this  question,  for  I  am  disin- 
clined to  dogmatize  to  society  on  matters  of  liigh 
pul)lic  im[)ortance.  I  would  I'ather  leave  the 
discussion  and  settlement  of  such  grave  affairs 
to  the  strength  and  earnestness  of  the  masculine 
intellect.  All  that  I  say  here  I  would  offer  only 
by  way  of  suggestion  ;  and  it  would  greatly  i>ain 
me  to  have  an  undue  value  given  to  my  expres- 
sion of  regret  that  English  girls  of  the  iiighcr 
ranks,  wliilc  they  are  really  destined  for  mur'xKjcs 
de  convenancc,  should  be  in  their  first  day-s])ring 
of  feeling  either  educated  and  expressly  instruct- 
ed to  jiblior  them,  or  at  least  be  encouraged  to 
adopt  the  sentiment  that  it  is  more  noble  for  a 
woman  to  remain  in  a  single  state  all  her  days 
than  to  marry  a  man  who  does  not  in  every  re- 
spect come  up  to  her  ideal  of  manly  perfection. 
1  can  not  liclj)  thinking  that  the  elders  of  society 
manifest  some  mental  confusion,  and  still  more 
moral  cowardice,  on  tliis  subject  of  matrimony. 
Since  experience  and  usage  support  the  system 
of  )jriident  matrimonial  comjiacts,  why  arc  satir- 
ists jjermitted,  witliont  reproof,  to  brand  them 
with  the  odious  term  of  merrenary  ?  why  does 
society  give  an  insincere  countenance  to  the  cal- 
umny? and,  above  ail,  why  arc  girls,  who  are 
appointed  to  live  and  move  in  a  world  of  arti- 
ficial construction,  incited  to  shape  their  course 
according  to  the  dictates  of  their  natural  suscep- 
tibilities, and  to  embrace  views  suited  only  to  a 
state  of  society  very  much  better,  or  a  state  of 
society  very  much  worse,  than  that  which  we  at 
present  enjoy  ? 

''  Here,"  my  friends  will  say,  "  is  Olive  Blake 
flying  again  in  the  face  of  the  world,  according 
to  her  wont !  Has  she  not  sufficiently  scandal- 
ized society  liy  publishing  her  last  volume  of 
poems  witli  (jreek  notes?  Must  she  now  be 
pugnacious  against  the  existing  order  of  things 
on  the  subject  of  the  marriage  bonii  ?  Wliat 
can  be  her  motive?" 

My  motive,  my  kind  questioners,  is  sim])ly 
tliis.  I  am  going  to  tell  the  story  of  my  early 
life — how  I  was  betrothed  while  I  was  in  the 
nurserv,  hoAv,  at  the  direction  of  a  dearly  beloved 
father,  I  was  married  to  a  man  almost  if  not 
quite  old  enough  to  be  mj'  sire,  and  how  my 
marriage  —  Wf)rse  than  no  marriage  —  brought 
u))on  me  suffering  and  shame  immeasurable. 
1'he  course  of  my  tale  will  ])oiiit  me  out  as  the 
victim  of  .a  mariai/p  de  coin-ciumre.  And  if  it 
were  not  for  the  foregoing  jjj'elude,  my  autobio- 
graphical sketch  would  lead  my  readers  ro  infer 
that  I  altogether  condemn  a  .•-ystcm  which  bore 
hardly  on  myself,  whereas  I  ilo  not  ])resume  to 
make  my  misfortunes  a  ride  for  all  the  world. 
For  the  system,  1  am  undecided  whether  it  be 


good  or  bad.  I  have  therefore  guarded  myself 
against  a  misconstruction  that  would  represent 
me  as  attacking  that  system.  Here  is  my  mo- 
tive for  being  ''pugnacious  against  the  existing 
order  of  thin^rs." 


CHAPTER  II. 


A    FAMILY    COMPACT. 


My  childhood  was  so  hapjiy,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  unlike  that  of  most  English  girls  of  my 
time,  that  it  demands  a  few  words  of  retrosjicct- 
ivc  description.  English  parents  are  rapidly  im- 
proving, and  the  cross-grained,  churlish,  egotist- 
ic, selfish  English  parent  is  fast  becoming  an  ex- 
tinct species  of  our  national  humanity ;  but  thir- 
ty, forty,  and  fifty  years  since  (the  further  back 
one  goes  to  Aubrey,  and  beyond  him  to  Sir 
Roger  Ascham,  and  beyond  Sir  Roger  to  the 
Raston  Letters,  one  finds  the  unpleasant  features 
of  p'arental  and  filial  relations  to  increase  in  num- 
ber and  emrmity),  childhood  was  too  frequently 
a  long  jieriod  of  mortification  and  bitter  experi- 
ence. To  be  badgered  incessantly  with  '"you 
inmjn'f,  do  this,"  and  "you  iinist  do  that,''  to  be 
twitted  and  taunted  about  defects  consequent  on 
0-  fyeblc  constitution,  to  be  convicted  by  circum- 
stantial evidence  of  disobedience,  insubordina- 
tion, "qucerness,"  and  all  the  other  horrible 
crimes  which  persons  of  tender  years  can  perpe- 
trate, to  be  goaded  into  rebellion,  and  then 
starved  and  dark-closeted  into  a  servile  prostra- 
tion of  individual  will — this  was  the  ordinary 
childhood  of  half  a  century  since.  Let  the 
merry,  petted  little  tyrants  of  the  present  genera- 
tion in  due  course  learn  that  such  was  the  case,  . 
and  the  memory  of  far-distant  nursery  gladness, 
standing  out  in  contrast  with  the  niemoiy  that 
vii(jlit  /idve  occujiied  its  place,  will  render  doubly 
jileasant  the  task  of  ministering  to  the  failing 
powers  of  those  who  cherished  them  tenderly 
when  they  were  little  ones. 

Fortunately  my  father  was  a  man,  in  all  that 
respected  his  paternal  character,  far  before  his 
time.  A  mother  I  had  never  known,  for  my 
birth  was  her  death  ;  but  my  father's  tenderness 
more  than  sujjplied  the  loss  I  thus  sustained. 
I\ly  wishes  were  never  thwarted.  If  their  grati- 
fication would  have  been  hurtful,  devices  were 
emjiloj'ed  to  make  me  forget  them,  but  they  were 
never  met  with  harsh  and  unsympathetic  refusal. 
.Speaking  after  the  light  of  their  days,  my  father's 
friends  of  the  siU'ter  sex  impressed  ujion  him  that 
he  would  spoil  me,  and  that  under  his  too  in- 
dulgent 7-c;/iiiie  I  should  grow  up  cajjricious,  self- 
willed,  oiiinionated,  and  violent.  There  was 
just  enough  natural  tendency  to  these  faults  in 
me  to  justify  the  apprehensions  of  the  good  la- 
dies ;  and  1  do  fully  believe  that  any  kind  of 
education,  difterent  from  my  father's  lenient  and 
enlightened  system,  wotdd  have  brought  me  u)) 
to  the  fidl  staiuLard  of  the  evil  predicted  of  me. 
As  it  was — thanks  to  my  father's  consistent  gen- 
tleness!— I  enjoyed  my  childhood  thoroughly, 
and  entered  life  with  a  temjicr  unembittercd  and 
slow  to  take  offense,  although  it  was  constitution- 
allv  excitable,  and  sometimes  even  irritable. 

As  the  only  child  of  Matthew  Blake,  the 
wealthy  banker  of  the  firm  of  "  retershani  and 
Blake,"  I  was  reared  in  luxury,  and  with  all 
those  best  means  of  educational  jn'ogress  which  .^ 


I 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


75 


money  can  purchase.  I  do  not  think  any  one 
Would  call  nie  "plain;"  I  am  tall,  and  have  a 
face  which,  thougii  it  is  not  altogether  free  from 
the  signs  of  mental  trial  and  bodily  suffering,  is 
sufficiently  well-looking ;  but  I  am  no  beauty. 
Even  at  seventeen  I  could  not  have  persuaded 
myself  that  I  was  a  beauty.  Whatever  natural 
endowments  I  have  beyond  the  ordinary  run  of 
women  may  be  summed  up  tiius;  A  good  mem- 
ory, some  imagination,  a  strong  taste  for  the 
quiet  jjursuits  of  the  study  and  the  studio,  a  con- 
siderable natural  faculty  for  music,  anti  a  very 
unusual  amount  of  perseverance.  With  these 
gifts  (the  most  important  of  which  is  the  last)  I 
have  achieved  a  reputation  for  genius,  without 
having  one  solitary  spark  of  it;  and  I  believe 
that  any  woman  similarly  qualified  might  do 
the  like.  I  do  not  know  whether  this  assurance 
will  be  a  consolation  to  any  of  those  "  objectless 
spinsters"  who  just  now  are  raising  their  eyes 
from  the  earth's  surface,  and  are  irajiloring  the 
moon  to  give  them  something  to  think  about ; 
but  I  trust  it  may. 

In  my  education  I  was  singularly  fortunate — 
far  more  so  than  the  majority  of  English  ladies 
can  hope  to  be.  For  every  accomplishment  I 
]i;ul  a  professor  of  the  very  bast  kind.  Masters 
came  from  London  to  my  fatlier's  villa  at  Ful- 
liani,  from  the  time  that  I  was  six  till  I  was  six- 
teen, and  instnicted  a  willing  puyiil.  Sometimes 
a 5  many  as  three  masters  visited  iiie  in  the  course 
of  the  day.  I  had  three  music-masters,  who 
came  to  me  three  times  a  week — one  for  the 
))iano-forte,  one  for  the  Inrp,  and  one  for  sing- 
ing. A  distinguished  Royal  Academician  in- 
structed me  in  the  use  of  the  pencil  ;  and  Girtin, 
till  his  genius  was  gatli  a-ed  from  us  by  an  un- 
timely death,  taught  mj  to  paint  with  water- 
colors.  An  accurate  knowledge  of  Frencli  and 
Italian  was  imparted  to  me  by  jjrofessors  of  note. 
German  I  did  not  acquire  till  a  comparatively 
recent  date  ;  but  before  I  was  fourteen  I  had 
gained  my  father's  permission  to  learn  Latin, 
imder  the  guidance  of  an  Oxford  scholar.  I 
liad  also  riding  masters  and  dancing  professors 
in  continuous  succession. 

It  may  not,  however,  be  imagined  that  I  was 
overdone  with  instruction — that  I  was  crammed. 
So  far  was  this  from  being  the  case,  I  never  had' 
one  minute's  experience  of  school-room  head- 
ache. My  masters  were  agreeable,  entertaining 
gentlemen,  and  were  paid  liberally  to  amuse  as 
_well  as  to  teach  me.  I  did,  and  they  did,  just 
as  much  as  I  liked,  and  no  more.  They  seemed 
almost  my  playmates,  I  laughed  and  ])rattled 
with  them  so  freely.  I  was  to  tiiein  "  Mattliew 
Blake's  little  heiress,"  "Matthew  Blake's  ]>reco- 
cious  little  child,"  and  they  had  ample  reasons 
for  striving  to  make  nn  like  them.  My  father 
also  was  at  great  pains  to  find  me  abundance  of 
cheerful  society,  and  I  had  a  long  list  of  ac- 
quaintances and  "dearest  friends"  of  my  own 
age.  On  the  amount  and  regularity  of  my  dai- 
ly exercise  my  dear  father  was  very  particular. 
Every  day,  when  the  weather  permitted  me.  to 
do  so,  I  rode  at  least  twelve  miles  about  the 
/neighborhood  on  one  of  my  ponies,  a  dainty  lit- 
tle page-groom,  booted  and  sjjurred,  and  simi- 
larly mounted,  following  close  at  my  heels — 
while,  for  greater  security,  one  of  my  father's 
grooms,  or  the  old  coachman,  rode  behind  us, 
at  a  distance  of  fiftv  vards.     In  wot  weather  I 


took  walking  exercise,  skipped  ropes,  and  rode 
my  ponies  in  the  centre  of  the  prodigious  con- 
servatory, which  had  been  built  as  large  as  a 
riding-school  for  my  express  accommodation. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  clement  of  my  early 
education  which  had  the  most  i)ernianent  infiu- 
ence  on  my  character  was  my  dear  father's  treat- 
ment of  me.  He  always  displayed  to  me  the  rc- 
s])ect  due  to  a  woiiuin.  He  sometimes,  when  I 
was  a  very  little  one,  nurseil  me  on  his  knee, 
and  to  the  last  he  would  be  ])layful  to  me  in 
words  and  acts;  but  he  never  caused  me  to  feel 
that  I  was  only  a  cliild.  I  always  dined  with 
him  when  he  was  alone.  One  of  my  earliest 
recollections  is  of  sitting  at  the  head  of  his  table 
(when  I  could  not  have  been  more  than  five 
years  of  age),  while  he  and  I  gravely  pledged 
each  other — he, drinking  a  glass  of  wine,  and  I 
putting  my  lips  to  a  little  wine-glass,  filled  with 
toast-water.  I  remember  that  occasion  also  by 
the  fact  that  my  father's  sister  (Mrs  Wilby,  who 
died  lately  in  extreme  old  age)  was  of  the  jiarty, 
and  looked  on  with  surprise.  I  had  never  be- 
fore seen  her,  and  was  informed  after  dinner  that 
she  had  come  to  reside  with  us,  and  act  as  my 
companion  and  chaperon.  'And  in  such  capac- 
ity of  grave  domestic  friend  the  kind  old  lady 
continued  to  live  with  me  till  the  time  of  her 
death. 

In  the  same  way  that  INIatthew  Blake  drank 
to  his  little  child's  health,  he  talked  to  her  with 
the  gravity  which  ciiildren  always  enjoy,  but  are 
seldom  honored  with,  in  intercourse  with  their 
elders.  He  always  converged  with  her,  as  tar 
as  it  was  possible  to  do  so,  on  sulyects  which  in- 
terested him,  and  in  such  a  manner  that  they 
interested  her.  He  was  a  connoisseur  and  col- 
lector of  works  of  art,  having  in  his  elegant  and 
sjiacious  villa  many  valuable  paintings,  and  a 
precious  museum  of  rare  engravings,  old  etch- 
ings, coins,  and  curious  gems.  About  all  these 
he  used  to  speak  to  his  precocious  little  girl  in 
so  entertaining  a  manner  that  she  could  not  do 
otherwise  than  remember  what  he  said,  and  in 
time  came  to  know  almost  as  much  about  them 
as  her  tutor.  As  years  went  on  he  introduced 
her  to  matters  of  business,  explaining  to  her  all 
the  ])henomena  and  mysteries  of  the  credit  sys- 
tem which  sustains  the  gigantic  operations  of 
modern  commerce.  It  is  no  exaggeration  of  the 
strange  truth  to  say  that,  when  the  little  girl  was 
thirteen  or  fourteen  years  of  age,  she  knew  as 
much  about  the  history  and  worth  of  public  se- 
curities, the  modes  by  which  governments  raise 
loans,  and  the  means  by  which  sj)eculators  turn 
such  loans  to  their  advantage,  as  most  young 
men  do  who  §pend  all  their  hours  in  the  atmos- 
j)here  of  Lombard  Street. 

Among  my  other  absurd  manifestations  of  pre- 
cocity was  a  taste  for  scribbling.  The  comjiosi- 
tion  of  my  first  poem  I  can  not  recall ;  but  my 
first  volume  of  jioetry  was  printed  when  I  was 
only  thirteen  years  of  age.  The  edition  con- 
sisted of  tirelve  copies,  which,  it  is  needless  for 
me  to  say,  were  jealously  confined  to  private 
circulation.  I  have  my  fondly  ]iroud  father's 
co]iy  now  iii  my  possession,  with  the  following 
entry  on  the  lly-leaf,  in  his  handwriting:  "My 
wt)nderful  chilli's  j)oems,  ]irinted  in  the  first 
month  of  her  fourteenth  year. — Matthew  Blake." 

I  was  just  sixteen  years  of  age  when  this  in- 
dulgent father,  as  we  sat  over  the  dessert  one 


7G 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


winter  evening,  said  to  me  :  "Olive,  I  have  ask- 
ed Mrs.  Willn-  to  leave  us  alone  for  a  few  hours, 
and  to  sec  that  we  arc  not  disturbed.  Can  you 
spare  nic  that  time  for  the  consideration  of  im- 
portant business?" 

"Certainly,  dear  papa,"  I  answered,  leavin<; 
my  seat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  taking,' 
possession  of  a  chair  close  to  him. 

"That  my  health  has  long  been  in  a  jnccari- 
ous  state  you  arc  well  aware,  Olive?" 

"You  are  not  worse?"  I  inquired,  remember- 
ing, as  I  did  so,  that  for  several  days  past  he  had 
been  more  pale  and  thoughtful  than  usual. 

"  No,  not  worse  than  1  knew  I  should  be,  only 
nearer  my  end.  My  darling  girl,  it  is  now  ten 
years  since  I  first  ascertained  that  I  had  within 
me  the  seeds  of  a  malady  that  ^\'ould  jircvent  my 
seeing  extreme  old  age.  Uad  1  been  nervous  or 
dejiressed  by  the  discovery,  you  would  have  lost 
me  years  since;  but  I  am  of  an  equable  tcmijcr- 
ament,  and  in  every  division  of  my  life  I  have 
had  cause  for  contentment,  so  I  have  had  a 
longer  term  of  pleasurable  existence  than  my 
physician  ten  years  since  thought  probable  or 
even  possible.  The  time  has  now  come,  how- 
ever, when  I  must  iA?sign  myself  to  a  termination 
of  this  life.  Another  medical  opinion  has  con- 
firmed the  decision  of  my  old  and  trusted  phy- 
sician that  I  can  not  continue  here  much  longer. 
Most  likely  the  course  of  the  next  twelve  months 
will  make  you  an  orphan." 

I  was  silent,  and  gave  no  sign  of  emotion  save 
that  I  took  my  father's  right  hand  and  j)ressed  it 
against  my  lips.  I. knew  that  any  stronger  ex- 
pression of  my  grief  and  dismay  would  trouble 
him,  and  I  felt  that  he  had  only  begun  his  im- 
portant communications,  and  needed  all  iiis 
strength  and  mental  composure  for  what  he  had 
still  to  say. 

"Thank  you.  You  arc  a  brave  girl,"  he  said, 
with  an  air  of  relief,  as  he  read  in  my  face  no 
signs  of  womanly  weakness,  and  saw  in  my  eyes 
110  lack  of  filial  concern  ;  "I  knew  I  coukl  trust 
you.  Now  the  worst  of  my  evening's  business 
is  over." 

He  mixed  himself  a  tumbler  of  wine-and-wa- 
ter,  and  having  delilierately  refreshed  himself 
with  a  portion  of  it,  he  turned  to  me  and  com- 
menced a  statement  of  his  wishes  wiili  regard  to 
me  that  effectually  controlled  my  course  when 
he  was  in  the  grave. 

"  I  iiave  never  treated  you  as  a  child  is  oidi- 
narily  treated.  You  have  been  my  friend  as 
well  as  my  child  ;  and  young  as  you  are  I  have 
few  secrets  from  you.  I  am  now  going  to  give 
you  a  last  proof  of  my  confidence  by  telling  you 
the  contents  of  my  will,  and  the.  reasons  that 
have  indusicd  me  to  make  it.  I  am  now  just 
sixty  years  of  age.  Fivc-and-forty  years  ago  I 
entered  the  bank  of  the  late  Mr.  Petersham  in 
Lombard  Street,  witli  a  salary  of  £80  jier  annum, 
and  no  prosjiect  of  any  advanc'ement  save  by  a 
disjdiiy  of  intelligence  and  zeal.  I  was  then  a 
poor  lad,  without  a  single  wealthy  relation  or 
opulent  friend;  whereas  now,  though  I  am  still 
only  ajiproaehing  tin;  entrance  to  old  age,  I  have 
rather  more  than  i;;55(),0()() — ail  that  wealth,  and 
the  luxury  with  which  I  have  lived  for  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  century,  being  a  consequence  of 
my  connection  with  a  master  able  to  dis(!ern 
business  capacity  in  a  servant,  and  generous 
enough  to  reward  it  with  a  liberal  hand.     I  do 


not  need  on  the  present  occasion  to  describe  mi- 
nutely or  even  to  name  the  services  which,  while 
I  was  still  ordy  a  clerk,  I  was  able  to  ivnder  my 
benefactor,  and  which  earned  for  me  his  confi- 
dence and  even  his  gratitude.  It  is  enough  for 
me  to  say  that  they  led  to  my  obtaining  a  ])art- 
nershi]5  in  his  business,  and  to  my  being  now 
one  of  the  most  infiuential  men  in  the  city  of 
London.  Alfeetion  not  less  than  jiride  made 
me,  as  they  still  make  me,  value  highly  mv  po- 
sition as  a  member  of  the  house  of  '  Petersham 
and  Blake.'  The  strong  attachment  I  formed 
for  the  late  Mr.  Petersham — whom  it  is  now  as 
much  my  ]nide  as  ever  it  was  to  style  my  bene- 
factor— was  not  confined  to  him.  When  I  was 
made  a  ]jartncr  in  the  house  it  was  with  the  cor- 
dial consent  of  the  present  Mr.  Petersham,  whom 
you  have  often  seen,  and  who  was  even  tlicn  his 
father's  partner.  That  gentleman,  though  twelve 
or  fifteen  years  my  senior,  had  on  my  first  intro- 
duction to  him,  as  the  j'oungest  of  his  numerous 
clerks,  formed  a  favorable  opinion  of  me — an 
ojiinion  destined  s-lowly  to  become  a  warn)  and 
genuine  friendship  that,  after  many  trials,  is  at 
the  ju'csent  date  as  steadfast  as  ever  it  was. 

"  Vou  may  now,  Olive,  dismiss  from  your 
mind  (for  the  jjresent)  all  thought  of  my  first 
benefactor,  as  I  shall  henceforth  s]jeak  of  my  re- 
lations with  his  son — our  very  dear  friend,  and 
the  i)rcsent  head  of  the  firm.  Sound  from  base 
to  summit  as  our  firm  is,  and  wealthy  as  are  its 
members,  Mr.  Petersham  and  I  have  more  than 
once  discussed  the  effect  it  would  have  on  its 
character  if  my  accumulations  were  withdrawn 
from  it.  My  wealth,  I  need  not  tell  you,  is  tri- 
fling compared  with  his;  but  from  causes  wliicli 
you  will  fully  a])preeiate  directly  they  are  jjoint- 
ed  out  to  yon,  his  projierty  is  not  so  available  as 
nunc  for  those  emergencies  which  frequently  oc- 
cur in  the  career  of  such  a  house  as  ours.  Mr. 
Petersham's  position  and  name  in  the  monetary 
world  are  the  affairs  of  generations,  and  he  now 
not  unnaturally  is  ambitious  of  mei'ging  his  com- 
mercial honors  in  that  patrician  dignity  which 
is  the  highest  object  of  worldly  ambition  to  a 
British  subject.  For  himself  he  has  no  other 
wish  than  to  die  a  commoner  as  his  father  did 
before  him,  but  he  has  for  years  labored  to  attain 
an  iMiglish  ]ieerage  foi' — I  was  going  to  say  his 
son,  but  it  would  bo  more  right  for  me  to  say  his 
/loiise.  It  may  be  a  foolish  aim  in  the  eyes  of 
])hiloso])hy  ;  but  still  it  is  his  and)ition — it  is  an 
ambiiion  which  his  noble  father  would  not  have 
disap]irf)ved — and  it  is  an  ambition  with  which 
I  heartily  sympathize.  My  dear  friend  in  mo- 
ments of  ])rivaey  and  confidence  has  fre(piently 
said  to  ine,  'I  do  nut  want  a  scat  in  the  House 
of  Lords  for  myself.  I  should  be  (luite  hapjn'  if 
I  could  ])Ut  matters  in  such  a  train  that  1  could 
feel  sure  my  boy  would  arrive  at  the  honor  when 
I  am  in  the  grave.'  And  as  often  I  have  said, 
'  Petersham,  as  surely  as  you  are  my  old  bene- 
factor's son  and  my  own  true  friend,  your  am- 
bition shall  1)0  min;'.' 

"'J\)  acquire  iniluenco  ^\ith  ministries,  who 
arc  the  channels  through  which  the  honors  of 
I  he  Crown  flow  to  subjects,  Mr.  Petersham  has 
for  many  years  pursued  the  not  unwise  ]iolicy 
of  purchasing  landed  estates,  the  possession  of 
which  is  accompanied  with  the  control  of  adja- 
cent boroughs.  A  very  large  i)roportion,  there- 
fore, of  his  vast  property  has  been  expended  on 


I 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GODD  WORK. 


77 


the  acquisition  of  laiul,  wliieh,  from  its  jieciiliai- 
niiture,  is  always  sold  at  liutitioiis,  ami  froquL'iit- 
ly  at  enormous,  j)ri(.-t's.  As  a  consecinence  of 
this,  'the  house'  so  much  dejmids — 1  will  not 
say  for  its  stability,  but  for  it^^tijort — on  my 
property,  which,  every  f;irthin<^  of  it,  is  engaged 
ia  its  o])erations,  that  if  I  were  to  withdraw  from 
its  capital  that  amount  of  my  accumulations, 
which  I  am  at  liberty  to  withdraw  at  any  mo- 
ment I  please,  the  result  would  be  a  serious  in- 
convenience to  Mr.  Petersham,  though  not  ex- 
actly a  blow  to  the  security  of  '  Petersham  and 
Blake.'  If  I  were  to  be  so  ungrateful  and  ut-' 
terly  dishonorable  as  to  take  the  step  just  men- 
tioned, my  friend  would  have  at  an  enormous 
loss  to  convert  much  of  his  land  into  personal 
estate ;  would  possibly  have  the  annoyance  of 
■witnessing  '  the  house'  for  a  few  weeks  an  object 
of  distrust ;  and  would  certainly  have  to  surren- 
der his  life-long  schemes  under  circumstances 
that  would  subject  him  to  many  causes  of  pain, 
among  which  the  ridicule  of  rivals  would  be  not 
the  least." 

I  now  discerned  one  object  that  lay  near  my 
father's  heart,  and  with  a  natural  desire  to  show 
how  fully  I  sympathized  with  him,  and  was  anx- 
ious to  obey  every  hint  of  his  wishes,  I  said, 
"Dear  father,  do  not  trouble  yourself  with  need- 
less explanation.  Whatever  arrangement  you 
may  make  of  your  wealth,  I  shall  regard  as  best 
because  you  made  it.  Indeed,  you  oppress  me 
with  kindness  in  thus  condescending  to  give  me 
explanations  on  a  subject  which  properly  rests 
on  your  decision  alone." 

"Nay,  dear  Olive,"  he  answered,  with  one  of 
his  sweetest  smiles,  "though  I  give  you  pain, 
and  ojijiress  you  with  kindness,  I  must  continue ; 
for  ere  I  have  done  I  have  to  speak  to  you  on  a 
subject  that  concerns  you  more  nearly  than  gold." 

Of  course  I  was  silent. 

"You  see,  then,  without  more  words,"  con- 
tinued my  father,  "that  I  desire  the  bulk  of  my 
pro]jerty  to  remain  after  my  death  in  the  hands 
of  'Petersham  and  Blake.'  It  still  remains  for 
me  to  state  the  conditions  on  which  my  dear 
friend  Petersham  Avould  like  that  either  he  or 
his  son  should  benefit  by  such  an  arrangement. 
It  has  long  been  his  hope  and  mine  that  on  at- 
taining a  marriageable  age  you  would  become 
I  the  wife  of  Arthur  Byfield  Petersham,  and  share 
I  with  him  the  dignity  whicli  we  trust  he  will  one 
'■day  derive  from  our  united  wealth." 

I  only  b'jwed  my  liead  at  tliis  announcement, 
which,  I  own,  greatly  disturbed  me. 

"  You  are  young,  far  too  young,  my  cliild," 
resumed  my  fatlier  with  emotion,  after  a  jiause, 
''  to  have  your  head  troubled  witli  such  tlioughts 
as  these.  But  still  you  are  so  old,  that  I  should 
not  like  to  look  upon  you  in  the  last  moments 
of  my  life,  and  know  that  I  had  kept  you  in 
ignorance  of  my  plans  for  you.  Between  this 
and  the  hour  of  my  death  I  covet  a  perfect  con- 
fidence with  you,  Olive.  If,  when  my  dust  is 
committed  to  the  earth,  it  should  be  allowed  me 
to  hold  communion  with  your  mother,  I  should 
exult  in  being  able  to  assure  her  that  you  and  I 
were  friends  indeed,  without  one  touch  of  fear 
troubling,  and  without  one  reserve  limiting,  our 
love.  I  could  not  endure  on  my  bed  of  sick- 
ness to  imagine  you  saying,  after  my  li])s  had 
ceased  to  move,  'Oh  that  my  father  had  told 
me  this!' 


"You  can  not  in  your  heart,  Olive,  for  an  in- 
stant sujipose  that  1  would  liy  my  will  force  ujion 
you  a  distastcfid  marriage.  It  is  true  that  Air. 
Arthur  Petersham  is  fifteen  years  your  senior; 
but  he  is  an  honorable  and  highly  accomjilishod 
young  man,  much  admired  in  .society,  and  one 
who,  descended  from  a  gentle  line  on  his  father's 
side,  and  born  of  a  mother  of  a  high  patrician 
family,  might,  even  had  he  no  more  than  a  Iiiin- 
dretltii  part  of  his  wealth,  without  j)resumpti(jn 
seek  an  alliance  with  any  lady  of  our  aristocracy. 
Moreover,  I  do  not  bind  yon  to  marry  him.  Let 
me  tell  you  the  provisions  of  my  will.  On  my 
death  the  trustees  of  my  i)roi)erty  will  invest 
£50,000  in  the  funds.  That  £50,000  and  this 
villa,  with  the  little  land  around  it,  will  be  strict- 
ly settled  on  you  and  your  children,  whoever  ho 
may  be  whom  you  marry.  The  rest  of  my  prop- 
erty (which  we  will  call  £300,000)  will  i-emain 
invested  as  it  is  at  present  in  the  house  of '  Pe- 
tersham and  Blake,'  the  same  interest  that  is 
now  paid  upon  it  being  still  paid  at  certain 
specified  periods  to  the  trustees  for  your  sole 
benefit,  until  you  attain  the  age  of  five-and- 
twenty.  When  you  have  attained  that  age,  and 
not  before,  I  wish  you,  unless  you  feel  an  in- 
superable objection  to  do  so,  to  marry  Mr.  Arthur 
Petersham.  In  case  such  marriage  should  take 
])lace,  I  direct  that  the  duties  of  your  trustees,  as 
far  as  regards  the  capital  invested  in  'Petci'- 
sham  and  Blake,'  terminate — that  capital,  on 
the  solemnization  of  the  marriage,  becoming 
without  restriction  of  any  kind  the  pro])erty  of 
your  husband.  But  now  listen  to  me,  Olive,  for 
I  come  to  the  provisions  of  m.v  will,  in  case  the 
marriage  I  desire  should  not  take  place.  Sliould 
the  proposed  union  not  eventuate  through  Mr. 
Arthur  Petersham  being  disinclined  or  unabla 
by  his  own  act  to  become  your  husband  on  your 
attaining  the  age  of  twenty-five,  tlie  trustees 
named  in  my  will  are  directed  to  withdraw  the 
capital  already  mentioned  from  'Petersham  and 
Blake,'  and  pay  it  over  to  yon  for  your  sole 
and  unrestricted  use.  In  the  same  way  if,  on 
attaining  tlie  specified  age,  you  should  decline 
to  fulfill  your  engagement  with  Mr.  Arthur  Pe- 
tersham, because  lie  has  been  proved  guilty  of 
certain  acts  (specified  in  my  will)  which  would 
render  him  unlit  to  be  your  husband,  you  in  like 
manner  will,  as  under  the  former  contingencies, 
obtain  unlimited  possession  of  the  £300.000. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  when  you  are  twenty- 
five  Mr.  Arthur  Byfield  Petersham  is  willing 
an  1  able  to  marry  you,  and  has  not  proved 
himself  by  the  conduct  specified  unworthy  of 
you,  and  yet  you  see  fit  to  refuse  to  become 
his  wife,  the  £300,000  invested  in  'Petersham 
and  Blake'  will  be  his,  just  as  if  he  had  mar- 
ried you  ;  yon  in  such  case  enjoying  only  this 
villa  and  the  £50,000  settled  uj)on  you,  and 
such  sums  as  have  accumulated  in  the  hands  of 
the  trustees  in  the  discharge  of  their  trust  be- 
tween my  death  and  your  reaching  the  age  of 
five-and-twenty.  I  have  also  j)rovided  against 
another  contingency.  Yon  may,  bet\)re  attain- 
ing the  age  of  five-and-twenty,  marry,  if  you 
are  so  inclined,  another  suitor ;  but  in  tliat  case, 
if  Mr.  Arthur  Petersham  be  alive,  the  £300,000 
will  be  his  on  your  attaining  twenty-five  years 
of  age,  just  as  if  he  had  married  you. 

"Thus,  you  see,  Olive,  I  leave  you  free  as  to 
the  choice  of  your  husband,  though  I  intimate 


78 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOEK. 


to  voii  ill  a  forciliK'  infinner  tlic  man  I  wish  you 
to  "niiirry.  I  la'li^'vc  tiuit  by  becoming  the  wife 
of  Mr.  Artluir  retersham  you  will  luhicve  an 
lionorable  ami  envied  ]>osition,  anil  be  jihiceil 
most  favorably  for  enjoying  life.  At  the  same 
time,  I  wish  you  to  exercise  your  own  judgment 
as  to  the  advisability  of  the  step,  when  your 
judgment  has  arrived  at  maturity.  I  have  there- 
fore named  the  age  of  twenty-five — that  is  to 
say,  your  twenty-fifth  birthday — as  the  date  when 
you  are  to  give  your  final  decision  on  tlie  sub- 
ject. You  will  then  be  at  liberty  to  say  '  Nay' 
or  '  Yea'  as  you  like.  Should  circumstances 
have  transjjired  that  would  indicate  Mr.  Arthur 
Byfield  Petersham  as  a  man  not  calculated  in 
my  opinion  to  make  you  happj'^,  you  \\ill  be  able 
to  say  'Nay'  without  any  detriment  to  your 
worldly  circumstances.  Should  he,  however, 
fulfill  all  the  requirements  I  desire  of  him,  and 
be  at  forty  years  of  age  as  honorable  and  well- 
living  a  man  as  he  is  now  at  thirty,  you  will 
also  still  bo  able  to  say  'Nay,'  at  the  sacrifice, 
truly,  of  magnificent  prospects,  but  still  retaining 
the  enjoyment  of  wealth  so  considerable  that, 
united  to  your  personal  and  intellectual  gifts,  it 
will  secure  you  another  alliance — perhaps  not 
less  to  be  desired  than  a  union  with  Mr.  Peter- 
sham. My  final  testament  is  thus  calculated,  as 
far  as  poor  human  sagacity  can  see,  to  discharge 
my  debt  of  love  to  my  child,  and  my  debt  of 
gratitude  to  the  family  of  Petersham,  from  whom 
my  wealth  is  derived.  This,  dear  Olive,  is  the 
explanation  I  wished  to  make.  You  will  now 
be  in  a  position  to  inter]n-et  the  provisions  of  my 
will  when  I  am  no  more,  knowing,  as  you  now 
do,  that  it  has  been  made  with  two  objects — first, 
to  secure  your  welfare ;  secondly,  to  advance  and 
protect  the  interests  of  our  best  friends." 

I  have  already  stated  that  the  first  announce- 
ment of  my  father's  wishes  as  to  my  matrimo- 
nial settlement  greatly  disturbed  me.  I  knew 
Mr.  Arthur  Petersham  intimately  as  a  frequent 
visitor  at  Fulham,  and  far  from  having  con- 
ceived a  dislike  to  him,  I  found  a  ])lcasnrc  in 
his  society.  lie  was,  though  jilain  and  without 
the  dignified  bearing  of  his  father,  of  a  suffi- 
ciently agreeable  appearance  and  address.  Ills 
disposition  was  reputed  to  be  amiable.  He  had 
traveled  much  and  seen  much  of  the  world,  at  a 
time  when  even  men  of  wealth  were  by  no  means 
so  iniiversally  accustomed  to  travel  as  they  are 
at  the  present  time.  Moreover  his  mother,  Lady 
Caroline  Petersham,  liad  been  always  one  of  my 
dearest  and  most  favorite  friends.  There  w'as, 
therefore,  nothing  to  account  for  my  disturbance 
at  my  father's  proposal,  save  its  unexpected 
character  and  its  reference  to  a  subject  which  I 
was  too  much  a  child  ever  before  to  have  thought 
of,  and  yet  which,  child  as  I  was,  I  would  rather 
have  had  left  altogether  to  my  own  free-will  to 
deal  with  in  due  time  as  I  liked. 

It  was  no  time,  however,  to  resent  any  intru- 
sion, on  the  part  of  my  beloved  and  indulgent 
father,  into  the  secret  and  delicate  recesses  of 
my  nature. 

I  therefore  listened  in  silence.  It  was  well  1 
did  so  ;  for,  as  my  dear  father  continued  his 
revelatioTis,  I  found  that  in  making  arrange- 
ments for  the  aciiicvement  of  his  desire  he  had 
considered  with  characteristic  tenderness,  and 
provided  with  characteristic  generosity,  for  every 
contingency  likely  to  aifect  my  interests.     Mij 


dignity,  my  hajijiines?,  my  security  were  the  first 
ohjects  of  his  care.  He  said  truly  that  to  dis- 
charge his  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  family  from 
whom  he  hat^K;quired  so  much  of  his  life's 
pros])erit3',  ancWPlio  had  siu-h  a  strong  hold  on 
ills  aftections,  was  only  a  second  consideration. 

For  three  minutes,  at  least,  after  my  father 
had  done  speaking-  1  sat  in  silence  on  the  little 
low  cliair  I  had  during  his  communications  oc- 
cupied by  his  side ;  and  with  my  elbows  on  my 
knees,  and  my  hot  head  resting  on  my  hands,  I 
thought  on  all  I  had  just  heard.  The  result  of 
my  meditations  was  that  I  rose  from  my  scat, 
and  having  kissed  my  dear  father,  said  to  him, 
slowly  and  with  emotion, 

"  Dear  father,  of  all  your  innumerable  proofs 
of  affection  for  your  cliild,  the  greatest  is  the 
confidence  you  have  just  i>laced  in  her.  1  will 
now  say  nothing  which  shall  fetter  my  freedom 
of  action  in  the  future,  or  circumscribe  that  lib- 
erty of  decision  which  you  so  nobly  desire  should 
be  preserved  to  me  inviolate.  As  for  love — the 
love  that  women  feel  for  those  whom  they  con- 
sent to  marry — from  personal  experience  I  nei- 
ther know  nor  wish  for  many  a  day  to  know 
what  it  is.  My  poems  and  novels  tell  me  that 
such  love  is  .an  affection  which  even  those  wo- 
men whose  lives  are  governed  by  a  strong  and 
holy  sense  of  duty  can  not  alwajs  control.  Per- 
haps on  reaching  the  age  of  five-and-twenty  I 
shall  find  myself  unable  to  swear  that  I  will  love 
Mr.  Arthur  Petersham  (though  he  be  a  true  and 
honorable  gentleman)  as  long  as  we  shall  both 
live.  If  such  should  be  the  case,  I  will  exercise 
that  right  of  rejection  wliicli  my  kind  father  has 
reserved  for  me ;  but  at  the  same  time  I  shall 
find  it  a  stibject  of  hearty  congratulation  that 
my  inability  to  love  where  my  father  wishes  me 
to  love  will  not  cut  off,  from  the  possession  of  the 
larger  portion  of  his  wealth,  the  family  he  loves 
so  honorably  and  reasonably.  But  while  I  re- 
tain this  right  of  final  decision,  I  will  give  full 
weight  to  the  words  of  my  dear  father  who  has 
reserved  it  to  me.  I  will,  now  that  I  am  about 
to  enter  womanhood,  accustom  my  thoughts  to 
picture  myself  as  the  future  wife  of  Mr.  Arthur 
Petersham.  I  will  always,  without  violating  my 
reason  and  knowledge,  habitually  think  of  him 
as  a  man  worthy  to  be  mj'  husband,  because  my 
di'ar  fatlier  at  the  present  time  so  esteems  him. 
I  will  always  remember  also  that,  in  becoming 
his  wife  under  circumstances  which  my  con- 
science shall  approve,  I  shall  be  acting  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  wishes  of  a  dear  father  who, 
in  his  love  for  me,  has  been  more  tender,  and 
who  in  life  has  been  more  noble  than  any  fa- 
ther I  have  ever  seen,  or  read  of,  or  can  imag- 
ine." 

I  was  shedding  foolish,  idle  tears  when  I  term- 
inated this  earnest  speech  ;  and  my  father,  tak- 
ing me  into  his  arms  as  if  I  had  been  a  little 
chilli,  fondled  and  caressed  me,  stroking  my  hair 
and  kissing  my  forehead,  and  calling  me  his 
"noble  Olive." 

"We  never  again  alluded  to  the  subject  of  that 
evening's  conversation,  but  I  have  the  assurance 
— an  assurance  that  is  more  than  a  consolation 
for  all  my  subsequent  suffering  and  disgrace — 
that  its  result  was  a  source  of  great  comfort  to 
him  in  the  concluding  months  of  his  illness. 

The  si)ring  came  and  blossomed  into  summer, 
and  the  summer  reddened  into  autumn,  and  the 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


79 


autumn  was  cnniiiiLr  to  a  cIdsc  ;  :nul  tlin)Ui;;li 
spriii};  and  suninicr  ami  c^irly  autumn  \vc  were 
friends,  witliout  a  single  reserve  of  conlidenee. 

Ere  the  autumn  closed  a  guileless,  simjde, 
devout  man — a  man  of  unscllisli  aims  and  noble 
intellect — was  taken  from  the  world  ;  but  ere  his 
eyelids  met  in  their  last  repose,  he  said  (they 
were  his  last  words),  "Olive,  if  it  be  permitted 
me  to  see  and  know  and  speak  to  thy  mother,  I 
shall  have  my  wish." 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    FULFILLMENT    OF    THE    COMPACT. 

It  was  thus  that  before  I  was  introduced  into 
society  my  destination  as  a  married  woman  was 
fixed. 

On  my  father's  death  I  still  made  Fulhani  my 
home,  the  villa  being  placed  nominally  under 
the  superintendence  and  control  of  Mrs.  AVilby 
— a  quiet,  amiable  woman,  conversant  with  the 
world,  and,  though  she  made  no  profession  of 
having  any  element  of  mental  su]ieriority,  close- 
ly resembling  her  brother  (my  dear  father)  in 
quickness  of  perception  and  sound  judgment.  It 
speaks  more  for  the  goodness  and  sweetness  of 
her  disposition  than  my  own,  that  her  authority 
over  me  was  invariably  a  source  of  pleasure  to 
both  of  us. 

My  life,  however,  was  not  all  spent  in  seclusion 
at  Fulham.  I  made  three  foreign  tours,  accom- 
panied by  Mrs.  Wilby,  and  in  the  society  of  eli- 
gible persons  of  my  own  rank.  Twice  I  paid 
long  visits  to  my  uncle,  Mr.  Martin  Orger,  of 
Shorton  Park,  in  Northumberland  ;  and  I  made 
other  prolonged  sojourns  in  various  parts  of  the 
country.  At  the  opening  of  my  nineteenth  year 
Lady  Caroline  Petersham  took  me  with  her  to 
court ;  and  up  to  the  time  of  Lady  Caroline's 
death  I  passed  several  weeks  of  each  London 
•season  in  her  house  in  Grosvenor  Square — ac- 
companying her  wherever  she  went  in  those 
fashionable  circles,  of  which  she  had  been  from 
girlhood  an  admired  and  ])0]nilar  personage. 
Of  course  it  was  generally  known  that  I  was  be- 
trothed to  My.  Arthur  Bylield  Petersham,  but 
that  did  not  preclude  me  from  being  an  object 
of  attention  to  gentlemen  desirous  of  settling  in 
life  as  married  men.  Between  my  twentieth 
and  twenty-fourth  year  I  was  embarrassed  and 
complimented  with  several  matrimonial  over- 
tures. Far  from  seeming  desirous  C)f  guarding 
me  from  such  solicitations,  Lady  Caroline  ap- 
peared at  times  almost  to  manifest  an  anxiety 
that  I  should  accept  one  of  my  unauthorized 
suitors.  Indeed,  she  had  no  especial  object  to 
serve  in  securing  me  as  her  son's  wifj.  She  liked 
me  well  enough ;  but  if  I  chose  to  marry  any 
other  man,  before  attaining  the  age  of  five-and- 
twenty,  or  at  five-and-twcnty  declined  to  be  the 
bride  of  her  son,  the  wealth  he  as  a  bachelor 
would  acquire  by  my  conduct  would  have  more 
than  compensated  her  for  any  slight  chagrin  she 
might  have  experienced  at  the  defeat  of  the 
family  compact.  One  or  two  things  made  me 
suspect  she  would  have  been  better  pleased  if  my 
father's  will  had  fixed  an  earlier  date  for  my  final 
decision  witii  regard  to  Mr.  Artlnu"  Petersham. 
Forty  years  is  in  truth  an  advanced  age  in  a  mo- 
ther's eyes  for  the  settlement  of  an  only  son  ; 


and  it  more  than  once  struck  m;'  that  '-he  would 
have  congratulated  herself  on  any  (ururrence 
(save,  of  course,  that  of  my  death)  whicii  left 
him  free  to  select  a  suitable  bride  and  marry 
without  delay. 

Slic  was  an  amiable  and  imj)nlsivo  woman  ; 
singularly  simple  in  iier  manners,  but  inordi- 
nately ](roud  (if  her  jiatrieian  descent — and,  with- 
al, very  andntious.  It  was  therefore  not  im- 
probable that  she  would  have  preferred  f<n-  her 
son  a  wife  of  higher  lineage  than  Olive  Blake — 
the  banker's  daughter. 

I  had  therefore  all  tlie  usual  op]iortunities 
of  making  what  is  ordinarily  termed  a  "love 
match."  Whatever  faults  I  have — (and  they  are 
numerous  and  grave) — an  inordinate  love  of 
money  is  not  one  of  them.  Rich  as  I  therefore 
was  in  tiie  Fulham  property  and  the  £50,000 
settled  upon  me,  and  the  accumulations  of  in- 
terest in  the  hands  of  my  trustees  (which,  on  my 
arriving  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  amounted  very 
nearly  to  another  £100,000),  I  should  never  have 
thouglit  of  marrying  Mr.  Petersham  simjily  for 
the  sake  of  money.  But  it  so  happened  that  I 
never  for  a  minute  entertained  a  regard  for  any 
man  that  could  of  itself  have  induced  me  to  neg- 
lect the  fulfillment  of  my  father's  wishes.  My 
promise  to  him  was  fulfilled  to  the  word  and  the 
spirit.  I  had  said  to  him,  "I  will  always,  with- 
out violating  my  reason  or  knowledge,  habitual- 
ly think  of  him  as  worthy  to  be  my  husband,  be- 
cause my  dear  father  so  esteems  him."  Possibly 
I  sliouhl  have  rebelled  against  a  closer  restric- 
tion ;  but  my  dear  father  had  shown  such  care 
for,  and  confidence  in  me,  that  it  became  to  me 
a  sentiment  of  love,  honor,  duty,  to  trust  with 
similar  confidence  to  the  wisdom  of  his  plan.  I 
strictly  obeyed  him — being  all  the  while  imcon- 
scious  that  my  course  was  one  of  obedience. 

The  consequence  was,  I  entered  into  society 
in  a  very  different  frame  of  mind  from  that  of 
most  girls  of  my  rank.  It  never  occurred  to  me 
to  look  for  an  expression  of  preference  on  the 
])art  of  any  of  the  distinguished  young  men  I 
daily  met ;  and  on  the  occasions  of  my  receiving 
such  an  expression,  the  pleasure,  which  I  felt  in 
a  slight  degree  at  being  honored  with  the  highest 
compliment  that  can  be  paid  a  woman,  by  no 
means  repaid  me  for  the  discomfort  it  occasioned 
me.  Sly  course  was  marked  out  for  me,  and  I 
felt  no  difficulty  in  keeping  in  it.  The  excite- 
ment whicli  most  young  girls  find  in  receiving 
— and  some  very  few  in  seeking — admiration,  I 
did  not  need;  for  I  had  an  abundance  of  work 
to  think  about  and  to  accomplisli  in  pursuing 
mv  studies,  in  devchi]iing  my  taste  for  music  and 
the  fine  arts,  and  in  the  comjiosition  of  my  pub- 
lished works,  by  which  I  am  not  altogether  un- 
known. 

Tiiose  gentleriicn  who  had  superintended  my 
education  during  my  dear  father's  lifetime  were 
good  enough  to  continue  to  give  mo  tlicir  valued 
instructions. 

At  Fulliam  I  had  therefore  ]ilcnty  to  do. 
As  for  Mr.  Arthur  Petersham,  t  had  always 
liked  him  as  an  agreeable  companion  ;  and  look- 
ing to  him  as  my  future  husband,  I  gradually, 
in  the  course  of  ycai-s,  conceived  for  him  a  sen- 
timent of  warm  kindliness  and  genuine  respect, 
which,  though  very  diftercnt  from  my  ideal  of 
love,  and  fir  short  even  of  that  affection  which 
I  believed  to  exist  in  a  world  of  compromises, 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


/ 


etill  appeared  to  me  to  be  love  For  nic  lie  al- 
ways nianifostcd  a  devotion  passionnte  in  its 
forec  and  dclii'ate  in  its  expression.  JMore  than 
once  he  laiifilicd  about  our  s^lowly  apj)roaehing 
viariaije  dc  cmivenance,  and  avowed  that  he  wish- 
ed such  unions  were  more  general  in  the  world, 
if  the  feelings  of  those  wiio  entered  them  resem- 
bled his  in  intensit}-.  I  can  honestly  say,  that 
to  the  very  day  when  my  illusion  was  rudely 
broken,  I  believed  him  to  be  deeply  and  genu- 
inely attached  to  mc.  I  flattered  myself  that 
his  heart  was,  every  fibre  and  pulse  of  it,  under 
my  control.  V 

My  simplicity  in  making  this  confession,  and 
my  still  greater  simplicity  in  having  such  a  con- 
fession to  make,  will  possibly  earn  for  mc  some 
ridicule ;  but  I  care  not,  so  long  as  they  shield 
me  from  the  contempt  of  those  best  and  noblest 
daughters  of  Eve — who  never  marry  save  where 
they  really  love 

On  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  my  birth- 
day I  told  ]Mr.  Arthur  Byiield  retersliam  that  I 
would  be  his  wife  ;  and  within  three  months  from 
that  date  we  were  married,  during  the  height 
of  the  season,-  in  St.  George's  cliurch,  Hanover 
Square.  Our  wedding  was  the  affair  of  the  week. 
Tho  steps  leading  to  the  church  entrance,  and 
the  pavement  leading  to  the  steps,  were  cover- 
ed M'ith  crimson  cloth  ;  my  (wps  of  bridenmids 
numbered  some  of  the  jjrettiest  and  best-born 
girls  of  the  season  ;  Hanover  Square  was  block- 
ed up  with  cquijiages  of  the  aristocracy;  the 
diamonds  jiresentcd  to  me  iiy  my  faiher-in-law 
were  valued  at  £G0,000;  at  the  banquet  suc- 
ceeding the  ceremony  the  "Duke"  was  present. 
But  may  not  all  these  particulars  be  read  in  the 
daily  papers  of  the  period,  which,  I  sujipose,  are 
stored  up  somewhere  ? 

At  the  time  of  my  wedding  my  husband  was 
forty  years  of  age,  but  he  did  not  look  so  old. 
During  the  two  or  three  years  preceding  the  event 
we  had  perhaps  seen  less  of  each  other  than  dur- 
ing the  five  ])reccding  years.  Affairs  of  business 
and  friendship  had  comjielled  him  to  pass  much 
of  his  time  on  the  Continent,  but  nothing  had 
occurred  to  throw  a  gloom  over  the  sunny  pros- 
pect that  lay  hefore  me  as  we  left  town  to  spend 
the  honcy-nioon  at  Burstead  House,  in  Hamp- 
shire, a  seat  recently  purcha.sed  by  my  husband's 
father. 

If,  on  the  morning  of  my  wedding,  I  had  ask- 
ed myself — "Olive  Blake,  do  you  with  all  the 
strength  of  your  nature  love  the  man  who,  ere 
this  day  is  closed,  will  be  your  husband?"  I 
should  not  have  been  ill  at  ease,  and  should  pos- 
sibly have  shed  tears.  But  I  didn't  so  examine 
myself,  and  was  therefore  able  to  keep  my  tears 
for  another  occasion.  But  this  question  I  did 
ask  myself  on  that  day,  even  as  I  had  often  be- 
fore asked  it — "Olive  Blake,  dcryou  believe  that 
Arthur  Byfield  Petersham  is  a  man  of  high  prin- 
ciple and  unblemished  honor,  and  that  you  will 
be  able  throughout  life  to  render  him  that  alle- 
giance, and  feel  for  iuni  all  that  coufiiliug  affec- 
tion which  arc  implied  by  the  words  '  wifely 
love?'"  And  I  was  able  to  answer  confidently 
"Yes." 

Though  I  am  a  banker's  daughter,  I  should 
be  sorry  to  gauge  the  sircngth  of  any  of  my  sen- 
timents by  a  mere  money  test ;  but  at  the  same 
time,  though  I  am  a  banker's  daughter,  it  would 
truelly  wound  my  self-respect,  and  cut  my  wo- 


manly ])ride  to  the  quick,  if  it  were  to  be  sup- 
]ioseil  that  1  married  Mr.  Arthur  Byfield  Beter- 
sham  from  mercenary  considerations.  Let  me 
therefore  state  one  fact,  which  at  the  same  time 
])oints  to  the  confidence  I  had  in  my  husband  as 
a  man  of  honor,  and  to  my  carelessness  about 
my  own  ]iecuniary  aggrandizement.  As  I  have 
already  said,  the  accumulations  of  money  in  my 
trustees'  hands,  on  my  attaining  my  twentv-fifth 
hirthday,  amounted  to  nearly  £100,000.  *  This 
sum  of  money  was,  by  the  terms  of  my  father's 
will,  at  my  sole  disposal ;  and  my  trustees  were 
very  anxious  that  ere  my  marriage  it  should  be 
invested  in  the  funds  and  settled  on  myself  and 
my  children.  They  strongly  urged  this  course 
upon  me,  but  I  resolutely  answered,  "No;  I 
will  not  have  that  done.  1  know  what  my  dear 
fatiier's  wishes  -were  with  regard  to  his  wealth 
and  the  Betersham  family.  The  same  consid- 
erations which  make  me  Mr.  Petersham's  wife 
make  me  also  desire  that  he  should  have  unre- 
stricted possession  of  that  money.  I  can  fully 
rely  on  his  honor;  and  if  some  dark  calamity 
should  befall  us,  my  house  at  Fulham  and  the 
£r)0,000  already  settled  on  me  will  be  an  ample 
provision  for  us." 


CHAPTER  IV.      . 

A    STIIANGE    INTERVIEW. 

After  passing  a  month  at  Burstead  House, 
my  husband  and  I  visited  Brussels  and  Paris, 
returning  to  England  in  the  middle  of  August, 
so  as  to  be  in  good  time  for  the  shooting,  to 
which  s]iort  Mr.  Petersham  had  an  attachment 
closely  allied  to  devotion.  Country  visiting 
made  my  time  pass  pleasantly  enough  during 
the  autumn  mouths;  and  I  was  looking  forward 
to  a  ])rogrcss  from  the  provinces  to  London  by 
the  opening  of  Parliament  (my  husband  having 
been  elected  while  on  his  wedding-trip  to  a  seat- 
in  the  House  of  Commons),  when  an  event  oc- 
curred whieli  somewhat  deranged  our  ])lans. 
Mr.  Petersham  senif)r,  although,  in  extreme  old 
age,  had  gone  to  his  grouse-mountain  in  Scot- 
land, in  the  lio]ie  that  change  of  scene  and  a 
I)raciug  air  might  bring  his  gout  into  subjection, 
as  they  had  dime  on  many  jirevious  autumns. 
The  remedy,  so  often  tried  with  success,  at 
length  failed ;  and  my  husband,  in  obedience  to 
a  summons  from  the  North,  left  me  in  Hamj>- 
shirc  and  hastened  to  the  bedside  of  his  dying 
father. 

Mr.  Petersham  senior  died  in  December,  and 
at  his  re(|uest  was  interred  in  the  mausoleum  of 
his  Yorkshire  seat,  where  Lady  Caroline  Peter- 
sham had  been  buried  three  or  four  years  be- 
fore. After  the  funeral  my  husband  returned 
to  Hampshire,  but  he  was  unable  to  spend  many 
days  with  me.  The  atfliirs  of  the  bank,  and  the 
various  matters  of  i)usiness  suddenly  thrown  upon 
hiui  by  his  father's  ileath,  required  him  to  visit 
various  parts  of  the  Continent  without  delay, 
and  as  his  route  was  as  uncertain  as  the  dura- 
tion of  bis  absence,  he  jji-oposed  to  make  his 
journey  alone,  leaving  mc,  when  I  was  tired  of 
ilamiisiiire,  to  take  u])  my  residence  once  more 
with  Mrs.  Wilby,  in  my  dear  old  home  at  Ful- 
ham, where  he  would  join  me  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, and  remain  with  me  till  we  should  take  up 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


81 


our  quarters  in  Grosvcnor  Square  for  tlic  ensu- 
ing season. 

As  I  had  only  recently  been  on  the  Conti- 
nent (and  foreign  travel,  a  generation  since,  was 
by  no  means  so  luxurious  an  amusement  as  it  is 
now),  and  as  I  was  already  anticipating  much 
pleasure  in  the  resumption  of  my  old  studious 
life  at  Fulhara,  I  was  by  no  means  in  a  humor 
to  demur  to  his  proposal.  Considerations  of 
Jjealth,  moreover,  disinclined  nie  to  travel  again 
just  then.  Mr.  Petersham's  plan,  therefore,  re- 
ceived a  heartier  approval  from  me  than  it  possi- 
bly might  have  met  if  I  had  been  only  eighteen 
years  of  age  and  he  tive-and-twenty. 

At  the  end  of  si.x.  weeks  Mr.  Petersham  was 
with  me  at  Fulham ;  and  toward  the  end  of 
February  we  came  up  to  our  town-house,  which 
had  been  decorated  and  furnished  afresh  for  my 
reception.  Of  course  gayety  formed  no  part  of 
our  immediate  programme,  my  father-in-law's 
recent  death  being  of  itself  a  barrier  to  our  en- 
tering into  general  society.  We  had  other  mo- 
tives for  quitting  Fulham  and  fixing  ourselves  in 
Grosvenor  Square.  Mr.  Petersham  wished  to  be 
as  near  as  possible  to  Lombard  Street,  the  clubs, 
and  the  House  of  Commons ;  and  I,  with  the 
nervousness  of  a  young  wife  expecting  soon  to 
be  a  mother,  wished  to  be  near  my  physicians. 

Mrs.  Wilby,  with  her  usual  readiness  to  oblige 
me,  left  Fulham,  and  became  my  visitor  in  Gros- 
venor Square  ;  and,  surrounded  by  my  ordinary 
means  of  amusement,  as  well  as  having  an  ad- 
mirable library  at  my  command,  I  was  soon  lead- 
ing the  same  tranquil  life  I  affected  previous  to 
my  marriage.  It  was  just  as  well  that  I  could 
make  myself  happy  without  Mr.  Petersham's  so- 
ciety (although  it  was  at  all  times  agreeable  to 
me),  for  ere  the  end  of  Marcli  he  was  again 
compelled  to  visit  the  Continent,  and  I  was,  for 
a  second  time  during  my  brief  period  of  wedded 
experience,  called  upon  to  play  the  part  of  a 
widow. 

Mr.  Petersham  left  me  on  the  2lst  of  March, 
returning  to  me  exactly  at  the  expiration  of 
twenty-eight  days. 

It  is  my  intention  now  to  relate  certain  occur- 
rences which  made  his  absence  a  memorable  pe- 
riod of  my  existence. 

Shortly  after  11  o'clock  a.m.,  on  the  3d  of 
Api'il,  a  servant  opened  the  door  of  the  library, 
in  my  house  in  Grosvenor  Square,  and  surprised 
me  with  the  announcement  that  a  lad}-  had  called, 
wishing  to  see  me  on  particular  business.  As  she 
had  not  offered  a  card  to  the  porter,  he  had  asked 
her  what  name  she  w'ished  to  be  sent  in  to  me  ; 
her  reply  to  this  question  being  that  she  did  not 
■wisli  to  give  her  name  to  him,  but  desired  only 
to  have  a  personal  interview  with  his  mistress. 
On  tills,  he,  acting  on  his  general  directions,  had 
replied  that  I  was  not  at  home,  and  that  the  lady 
had  better  call  again.  Instead  of  being  re])clled 
by  this  answer,  the  lady  had  said  in  a  kind  but 
decided  manner,  "I  think  you  had  better  not  re- 
fuse me  admission  without  first  letting  Mrs.  Pe- 
tersham know  that  I  wish  to  see  her.  She  would 
he  sorry  if  she  learned  that  you  had  turned  me 
from  her  door."  Tiie  porter  was  so  perplexed 
by  the  air  of  command  with  which  the  lady  spoke 
that  he  admitted  the  stranger  into  one  of  the 
waiting-rooms,  and  then,  before  he  was  alto- 
gether aware  of  what  he  had  done,  went  and 
consulted  with  the  servant  then  speaking  with 


me,  whose  business  it  was  to  take  messages  into 
the  library. 

Tiie  man  evidently  expected  reproof  for  the 
fault  committed  by  the  porter,  as  my  orders  had 
been  given  in  explicit  terms,  that  no  stranger, 
declining  to  give  his  or  her  name  and  address, 
should  ever  be  admitted  into  the  house  beyond 
the  porter's  table. 

''Is  she  a  lady?"  1  asked,  the  emphasis  laid 
on  the  last  word,  showing  that  my  inquiry  re- 
ferred to  the  station,  and  not  merely  the  sex  of 
the  intruder. 

"Oil  yes,  ma'am,  quite  a  lady,"  was  the  con- 
fident answer.      "/s«(r  her." 

"Well,  Johnson,  if  you  saw  her,  and  were 
satisfied,"  I  answered,  tickled  by  the  self-com- 
placency of  the  man,  "perhaps  I  ought  to  ad- 
mit her." 

"  I  think  she's  a  lady,  ma'am,"  returned  John- 
son, lowering  his  tone. 

Mrs.  Wilby  was  sitting  by  the  library  fire,  with 
a  novel  helping  her  slight  deafness  to  make  her 
unconscious  of  what  was  going  forward.  So  I 
roused  her  and  referred  the  matter  to  her  de- 
cision. 

"  You're  sure  she's  a  lady  ?"  inquired  my  aunt 
of  Johnson,  after  with  some  ditiiculty  (for  her 
sense  of  hearing  was  very  obtuse)  having  received 
my  statement. 

"Well  —  m'm  —  I,  I — should  say  she  was  a 
lady,"  replied  the  man,  all  his  confidence  in  his 
own  judgment  ebbing  away  under  the  repetition 
of  the  interrogatory. 

"You  may  say  I'm  at  home,  and  ask  her  into 
this  room,"  I  said,  settling  the  difficulty  for  my- 
self and  for  my  aunt  at  the  same  time. 

"  I  think  you  are  unwise,  Olive,"  observed  my 
aunt,  as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed  on  the  serv- 
ant's retreating  steps. 

"  Possibly,  aunt ;  but  if  it  is  some  poor  creat- 
ure begging,  I  can  give  her  what  she  wants, 
just  for  once,  though  it  would  not  do  for  me  to 
have  my  regulation  set  aside  often." 

I  had  scarcely  uttered  this  sentence  when  the 
door  fepened  again,  and  I  saw  approaching  me 
timidly,  from  the  most  distant  corner  of  the  libra- 
ry, as  lovely  a  girl  as  I  have  ever  seen.  Dressed 
in  rich  and  well-made,  but  simple  mourning 
(even  as  I  and  my  aunt  were),  and  with  riclr 
bands  of  golden  hair  folded  under  a  plainly- 
trimmed  bonnet,  she  was  clearly  a  person  to  be 
treated  with  consideration.  She  looked  as  a  del- 
icate girl  recovering  from  a  slight  indisposition 
might  look — somewhat  pale  and  subdued  ;  biit  I 
had  not  time  to  criticise  the  separate  elements 
of  her  beauty,  when,  slightly  j)utting  out  her 
hands  as  she  came  nearer,  she  said,  "  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you,  Mrs.  Petersham,  for  admitting 
me.  It  was  kind  of  you — a  kindness  not  mis- 
placed." 

Ere  Johnson  closed  the  door  I  caught  the  eye 
of  the  worthy  old  man,  and  he  responded  to  ray 
look- with  a  glance  that  said,  "Well,  ma'am,  and 
isn't  she  a  lady  ?" 

"Do  take  that  chair  by  the  fire,"  I  said,  hos- 
pitably to  my  caller  ;  adding,  with  a  smile,  "As 
I  have  not  yet  the  pleasure  of  knowing  your 
name,  I  can  not  introduce  you  to  my  aunt  in 
the  usual  manner." 

Ere  tlie  fair  creature  rested  her  slight  figure 
on  the  seat  to  which  I  jiointed,  slic  bowed  stiffly 
to  my  aunt,  and  then  said  in  an  imploring  tone, 


82 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


wliicli  fortunately  was  too  low  for  Mrs.  Wilby 
to  l)c  able  to  iiear  tho  words  uttered,  "Oh,  let 
me  sec  you  alone  !  Do  let  us  be  alone  !  What 
I  have  to  tell  you  I  should  not  wish  to  say  before 

third  person.     Do  let  us  be  alone  !" 

"  Surely,  if  you  wish  it,"  I  answered,  with  sur- 
prise.    "Here,  dear,  follow  me." 

So  saying,  to  the  unspeakable  astonishment  of 
Jlrs.  Wilby,  1  led  my  mysterious  caller  out  of  the 
libr;uy  into  ni}^  painting-room. 

"There,"!  said,  stirring  the  fire,  and  causing 
the  coals  to  crackle  and  to  blaze  cheerily,  "we 
shall  be  by  ourselves  here.  Now  sit  you  down 
on  the  sofa." 

1  thought  that  she  obeyed  me  with  an  effort, 
and  a  ])eculiar  unsteadiness  of  expression  In  her 
deep  violet  eyes  made  me  for  an  instant  uneasy 
in  her  presence. 

"Now  for  business  ?  What  is  it?  You  must 
begin,"  I  continued,  with  a  slight  laugh,  intend- 
ed to  be  reassuring. 

"  1 7)ntst .'"  she  gasped,  turning  white  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  beginning  to  tremble. 

I  waited  patiently  for  something  to  come  of 
this  "?;««^" 

"It  is  so  hard.  I  do  not  know  how  to  be- 
gin," she  continued. 

"Then  I'll  put  you  in  a  way  to  begin,"  was 
my  reply.      "  First  tell  me  your  name." 

The  suggestion  was  very  simple,  but  it  made 
her  start  in  her  seat,  and  drew  a  flash  from  her 
large  eyes  that  gave  me  a  shudder. 

"You  arc  right,  JMrs.  Petersham,"  she  an- 
swered, soon  calming  herself,  and  seeming  to 
consider  aloud — to  herself  rather  than  to  me — 
"you  should  know  my  name  first.  But  let  me 
see — which  name  shall  I  give  you?  my  own 
name,  or  the  one  I  bore  before  I  married  ?  Yes, 
I'll  give  you  that  name.  My  name  was  Etty 
Tree.^' 

"Ah,  then,  dear  girl,"  I  said,  with  a  smile, 
"  I  know  you.  How  is  Julian  Gower  ?  Can  I 
help  him  ?" 

A  river  of  scarlet  covered  the  poor  girl,  and 
she  rose  from  her  seat  shaking  in  every  limb. 
"What?"  she  said — holding  down  a  shriek  in  a 
whis])er —  "you  do  know  me  then  ?  You  remem- 
ber the  name?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember  the  name.  But  don't 
be  alarmed  !"I  answered.  "Has  any  ill  befallen 
him?  I  will  helj)  him.  I  saw  him  years  since 
in  Northumberland  for  a  short  hour  or  two." 

She  answered  me. 

I  have  heard  various  epithets,  more  or  less 
forcible,  ajjplied  to  human  voices,  expressive  of 
pain,  suffering,  and  alarm  ;  but  never  liave  1 
heard  or  read  a  description  of  sucli  a  voice  as 
that  in  which  Etty  Tree  made  hei-  answer.  It 
was  a  thin,  harsh,  thready  voice,  fall  of  agony, 
and  remorse,  and  bitterness.  Though  it  was 
harsh  and  thin,  it  was  still  a  whisper — such  a 
whisper  as  a  soul  suffering  the  torture  that  never 
ends  might  crave  a  drop  of  water  with. 

"  But  I  didn't  marry  him.  I  promised  to  love 
him,  and  to  be  liis  wife,  and  I  broke  my  word. 
And  perhaps  I  liave  broken  his  heart  too.  I 
was  false  to  him.  Despise  me — hate  me.  Oh, 
why  did  you  mention  his  name?" 

"Lot  us  be  calm,  my  jioor  child,"  I  said, 
adopting  a  maternal  tone  to  her,  though  she  was 
not  inncli  younger  than  my.self;  "you  want  to 
make  an  iinj)ortant  communication — evidently  a 


painful  one  also — to  me.  Nerve  yourself  then, 
and  he  of  good  courage.  Shall  I  ask  you  an- 
other question?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  is  your  Juisband ?  Tell  me  your  his- 
tory. Whatever  errors  you  may  have  commit- 
ted, my  breast  shall  have  pity  for  you.  Who  is 
your  husband  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  with  an  unspeakable  ten- 
derness, and  a  fearful  hoi-ror  combined,  as  she 
au.swered  my  question  with  a  movement  of  her 
lips.  Not  a  sound  issued  from  them.  Never 
did  the  silence  of  li])S  that  only  moved,  and  no- 
thing more,  make  a  more  hideous  declaration. 

"What?"  I  cried,  starting  in  my  turn. 

She  only  nodded  a  support  to  the  movement 
of  her  lips. 

"  Speak  it  again  !"  I  exclaimed. 

"I  have  said  it." 

"  What  ? — my  husband  ?" 

"The  man,"  she  answered,  steadily,  in  a  low 
voice,  "who  calls  him.self  your  husband  married 
me  more  than  three  years  since,  and  he  is  the 
father  of  my  child." 

She  said  no  more,  but  sat  before  me,  with  her 
delicate  face  turned  to  the  ground,  as  though 
fearing  to  meet  my  eyes.  As  I  looked  at  her  I 
should  have  been  grateful  could  I  have  persuaded 
myself  that  she  was  one  of  those  wicked,  aban- 
doned girls  who,  I  knew,  abounded  in  London 
and  every  great  city,  to  bring  dishonor  on  my 
sex.  But  there  was  nothing  to  justify  such  a 
suspicion — nothing  on  which  to  ground  such  a 
hope.  Grief,  pain,  humiliation  were  expressed 
in  her  face,  but  no  trace  of  impious  life.  She 
had  been  misled  by  simple,  childish  vanity;  by 
her  own  confession  she  had  broken  her  plighted 
troth  to  as  noble  a  young  man  as  the  British 
race  had  ever  reared  to  fight  against  an  adverse 
destiny.  But  truth  sat  upon  her  lips,  and  wo- 
manly virtue,  in  the  narrow  (but  withal  most 
sacred)  sen.se  of  the  word,  was  in  every  line  of 
her  countenance.  Moreover,  I  now  saw  such  a 
profound  wretchedness  settle,  like  an  unhealthy 
blight,  on  her  gentle  features,  that  even  in  my 
vindictive  agitation  I  was  compelled  to  pity  licr. 

"Oh,  dear  lady!  would  to  God  that  my  ma- 
ternal duty  did  not  compel  me  thus  to  pain  you  !" 
she  said,  at  last  putting  a  period  to  the  silence 
which  I  could  not  trust  my  voice  to  break. 

Her  maternal  duty !  Had  1  too  no  maternal 
aft'ections  to  consider? 

"You  say  you  know  my  husband,''  I  at, length 
answered.  "You  would  have  me  believe  evil 
of  him.  Tell  me  all  you  know.  You  talk  of  a 
marriage.     Where  did  it  take  ]jlace  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you  all,"  she  reiilicd,  slowl}-,  in  a 
feeble,  imjdoring  tone.  "Only  do  not  look  at 
me  so  sternly.  I  do  not  want  him  to  recognize 
me,  I  do  not  threaten  to  disturb  you.  It  is  only 
justice  to  my  child  I  ask.  Do  not  judge  me. 
God  will  do  that.  I  have  been  very  wicked,  but 
my  soul  knows  no  stain  why  you  should  look  at 
me  so." 

"  l}cgin  your  story.  I  know  something  of  you, 
for  I  have  heard  my  husliaml  and  his  dead  mo- 
ther speak  of  you  and  3'our  sister.  Begin  at  the 
time  when  you  lived  at  Laughton  in  the  cottage, 
close  by  the  ])ark,  ere  you  broke  (as  you  tell  vie) 
your  vow  to  Jnliun  i lower." 

Satan  had  hold  of  me,  and  I  could  not  speak 
less  bitterly. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


"It  is  my  duty  to  obey  you,"  she  answered, 
meekly.  And  after  a  pause  in  wliich  she  gatli- 
ered  strcngtii  and  composure,  she  told  me  the 
following  story;  "It  was  when  I  was  living  at 
Laugliton  that  Mr.  rctersham  came  and  led  me 
from  my  duty.  lie  told  mo  that  he  loved  me, 
and  he  promised  to  make  me  his  wife — the  lady 
of  Laughton  Abbey  and  vt'  all  the  wealth  (and 
even  more)  that  my  family  once  possessed.  I 
will  say  nothing  in  defense  of  my  evil  deed,  for 
which  God  has  punished  and  will  punish  me.  I 
tried  to  be  true  to  Julian  Gower,  but  I  could  not. 
I  knew  that  Mr.  Petersham  and  you  were  en- 
gaged ;  but  he  made  light  of  that,  and  told  me 
he  was  ready  to  give  up  all  your  wealth  for  love 
of  me.  Ob,  lady,  bow  was  I  to  believe  that  he 
did  not  really  love  me  ?  All  he  asked  of  me  was 
to  marry  him  secretly  and  without  delay.  At 
last  I  consented,  and  I  fled  from  Laughton,  trav- 
eling up  to  London,  as  he  desired  me,  and  on  the 
second  day  after  I  left  the  country  he  married 
me." 

"Where?"  I  put  in,  sharply. 

"At  the  church  of  St. Thomas,  Kennington.'' 

' '  Are  you  sure  ? — St.  Thomas's,  Kennington." 

"Quite  sure;  for  I  wrote  the  name  of  the 
church  down  in  my  note-book  on  the  day  we 
were  married." 

"Goon." 

"He  told  me  that  he  selected  that  obscure 
church  as  one  where  we  should  run  little  risk  of 
detection.  He  was  very  anxious  that  his  father 
should  never  hear  of  our  marriage;  for,  he  said, 
the  intelligence  would  kill  the  poor  old  man,  so 
bent  was  he  upon  the  marriage  which  would  send 
down  in  one  line  the  wealth  of  '  Petersham  and 
Blake.'  All  he  asked  of  me  in  return  for  the 
sacrifices  he  made  was  to  consent  to  our  mar- 
riage being  kept  secret  till  bis  fathers  death. 
The  consequence  of  his  father  discovering  our 
union  would  be  his  disinheritance  and  ruin.  As 
I  was  so  base  as  to  obey  him  when  be  told  me 
to  desert  Julian,  of  course  I  obeyed  him  too  in 
this." 

"You  were  married?"  I  said,  recalling  her, 
and  striking  the  floor  with  my  foot.  "I  want 
the  facts." 

"  Immediately  after  ^ve  had  been  married  and 
had  signed  our  names  in  the  register,  I  left  En- 
gland. Mr.  Petersham  put  me  into  the  carriage 
in  which  I  was  carried  away  from  London.  We 
parted  at  the  church  door,  and  I  proceeded 
straight  to  Dover,  with  Major  Watchit  (perba]3s 
you  know  him,  he  is  now  Sir  George  Watchit). 
Jly  husband  did  not  like  to  travel  with  me,  for 
fear  of  being  recognized  on  the  road  ;  so  he  con- 
fided me  to  the  care  of  ^lajor  Watchit,  and  fol- 
lowed us  to  our  destination." 

"  Where  was  that?'' 

"To  Castellare  —  three  or  four  hours'  vide 
I  from  Mentone,  in  the  iirincijiality  of  ilonaco. 
My  husband  had  secured,  in  that  secluded  vil- 
I  lage,  a  retreat  for  me.  Oh,  it  is  a  lovely  land  ; 
I  and  our  cottage  (surrounded  by  an  orange  grove, 
and  b^'dded  in  a  garden  where  the  harebells  blos- 
somed in  the  middle  of  Christmas)  commanded 
a  view  of  a  valley  leading  through  one  ridge  of 
the  mountains  that  wall  tlie  Bay  of  Genoa.  We 
traveled  over  France,  staying  a  few  days  in  .Par- 
is, and  when  we  reached  is'ice  Mr.  Petersham 
joined  us,  and  took  me  to  our  home  iu  the  mount- 
ain village.     Tliere  was  no  fear  of  our  seclusion 


being  broken  at  Castellare.  English  travelers 
never  came  there.  A  few  peasants,  speaking  a 
jtatois  I  could  not  to  the  last  well  understand, 
were-my  only  friends  and  neighbors  and  servants, 
with  the  exception  of  .Major  Watchit  and  my  hus- 
band and  their  men.  It  was  a  strange  life  for 
nic,  but  I  was  ba])i)y  when  ^Ir.  i'etersham  was  . 
with  me.  At  least,  I  should  have  been  haj)i)y  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  jjust.  When  I  was  alone 
I  could  not  forget  Tibby  and  Julian.  They 
haunted  me !" 

"You  were  left  alone,  sometimes?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Petersham  often  left  me.  Ho  coiUd 
not  help  it.  .  But  Major  Watchit  protected  me 
in  his  absence  till  the  cud  of  the  second  year 
after  my  marriage,  and  tlicn  I  had  my  child  for 
a  companion.  And  soon  after  Major  Watchit 
left  for  India,  where  Mr.  Petersham's  fatlier  had 
secured  for  him  a  high  command,  my  husband, 
fearing  that  our  retreat  might  be  discovered,  took 
me  to  Nice,  and  placed  me  and  my  child  in  the 
family  of  a  physician — and  since  then  1  have  only 
seen  him  once." 

"Only  once?" 

"Ay — only  once.  He  left  me  in  the  third 
year  after  my  marriage,  and  did  not  return.  1 
wrote  to  him,  but  be  sent  no  answers  to  my  let- 
ters. At  first  I  thought  the  letters  bad  miscar- 
ried ;  but  when  the  delay  continued,  and  I  spoke 
to  Dr.  Brunod — the  physician  who  had  charge 
of  me  and  baby — he  only  smiled,  and  said  that 
my  husband  would  return  soon  enough.  It  was 
all  the  answer  I  could  get  from  him.  I  do  not 
know  why  it  was,  but  I  i'.arcd  Dr.  Brunod.  He 
was  kind  to  me,  but  I  drc  ;dcd  him.  In  Janua- 
ry my  husband  came  to  In  ice,  but  he  was — oh  it 
made  me  mad  I  He  is  a  fearful  man  I  He  nev- 
er kissed  me.  lie  scarce  shook  hands  with  me. 
He  wanted  to  take  away  my  child,  to  be  educa- 
ted— to  be  educated  (why  it  could  only  just  say 
'  mamma") — to  be  educated !  Oh  it  was  too  hor- . 
rible !  He  wanted  to  rob  me  of  my  child.  I 
spoke  to  him — but  I  can  not  say  what  I  did  say 
— but  instead  of  touching  bis  heart  I  only  made 
him  turn  away,  and,  looking  at  Dr.  Brunod,  say, 
'  Poor  thing,  take  care  of  her,  doctor !'  What 
did  that  pity  mean  ? 

"  Dr.  Brunod  sjioke  to  him,  and  he  went 
away,  leaving  me  my  child.  Yes,  he  did  leave 
me  that.  But  I  felt  that  further  evil  was  in- 
tended for  me.  Dr.  Brunod  was  very,  very  kind 
to  me ;  but  still  I  feared  him  more.  He  treated 
me  like  a  friend,  and  showed  me  every  respect : 
his  house  stood  in  the  environs  of  Nice,  and  I 
was  at  liberty  to  walk  in  his  garden  and  about 
the  neighborhood  ;  and  whenever  I  liked  I  and 
my  baby  bad  a  drive  in  a  carriage.  And  so  it 
went  on  till  the  l)eginning  of  last  March,  when 
among  Dr.  Brunod's  letters  I  saw  one  in  my  hus- 
band's handwriting.  It  was  among  several  oth- 
ers left  on  the  table  I)y  the  Doctor,  who  bad 
([uitted  the  room  for  an  instant  with  ^ladamc 
Brunod.  I  took  up  the  letter  and  read  it.  It 
was  very  short,  and  ended,  'I  shall  be  with  you 
at  the  beginning  of  April,  when  I  must  have  the 
child.  The  jmor  girl  can  not  do  better  than  re- 
main under  your  kind  care.  JMy  dear  friend,  I 
am  sure,  would  wish  it.  But  the  child  she  may 
no  longer  have  charge  of.  As  a  jirofcssional 
mau,  you  know  I  am  right.'  I  knew  that  if  I 
waited  there*  Avas  no  hope  for  me  —  that  ho 
would  separate  me  from  my  child ;  that  —  oh 


84 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


he  is  worse  tliaii  I  over  imagined  bad  men  were ! 
So  1  lied." 

"Jlut  how  did  you  eontrivc  to  get  here  from 
Nice  without  bcins  apiirchended  on  the  road  ?" 

She  tossed  her  head,  and  gave  me  a  mehm- 
choly  smile  of  triumpli — the  saddest  and  most 
frightened  smile  that  can  be  imagined — as  she 
responded,  sjjeaking  very  quickly,  and  repeated- 
ly iu  her  haste  running  her  words  into  each  oth- 
er. "1  iiad  no  money,  and  no  passport.  What 
was  I  to  do  ?  Oh,  Dr.  Brunod  had  little  fear  of 
my  escaping !  There  was  no  need  to  watch  me ! 
But  I  made  one  bold  essay  to  save  my  child,  and 
it  succeeded !  I  used  to  walk  in  Dr.  Brunod's 
garden  with  baby,  nursing  it  in  my  own  arms, 
and  singing  to  it  about  England  and  home.  I 
used  sometimes  to  stray  beyond  the  boundary  of 
our  inclosure,  and  walk  on  the  public  coach- 
road.  One  day  I  was  so  walking,  when  a  mag- 
nificent equipage  ajiproaehed  me.  There  were 
two  carriages,  with  four  horses  in  each,  and  serv- 
ants behind.  At  a  glance  I  saw  they  were  En- 
glish carriages  and  horses,  and  another  glance 
assured  me  that  the  ladies  in  the  first  carriage 
were  )ny  countrywomen.  Fortunately  the  horses 
were  proceeding  slowly,  and  the  ladies  were 
looking  to  me  as  I  advanced  holding  out  baby 
in  my  hands.  Tlie  ladies  gave  a  quick  order  to 
the  servants,  and  in  twenty  seconds  the  carriage 
stopped,  and  I  was  speaking  to  its  occupants. 

"  'What  do  you  want?'  asked  one  of  the  la- 
dies, kindly. 

"  'You  arc  an  English  lady  and  my  country- 
woman, '  I  answered,  '  and  you  must  help  me. 
You  viHst  take  me  to  England.  I  am  an  En- 
glish wife  and  mother,  kept  here  against  my  will. 
They  want  to  separate  me  from  my  child.  For 
dear  Christ's  sake,  help  me !  Take  me  to  our 
country,  and  I  can  find  justice.  If  charity  docs 
not  rescue  mc  I  am  lost,  for  I  have  no  money  or 
passport,  and  if  I  had  them  I  could  not  reach  En- 
gland without  ]M-otection.  Oh,  do  not  hesitate, 
ladies !     At  this  moment  I  may  be  watched  !' 

"There  were  three  ladies  in  the  carriage,  and 
they  spoke  together  in  whispers.  I  heard  them 
whisper  among  themselves,  'She  is  certainly  a 
lady.'  'She  is  sweety  pretty,  and  the  picture 
of  distress  and  innocence.'  'It  is  strange,  but 
cruelty  is  sometimes  strange  even  in  this  world.' 
'We  can  not  do  wrong  in  helping  her.'  'She 
can  have  the  vacant  place  with  the  children,  and 
pass  for  the  nurse  we  have  left  behind  us.'  '  Of 
course  we  must' help  her.'  At  last  the  chief  lady 
of  the  three,  the  one  who  had  first  sjjoken,  said, 
in  a  voice  of  welcome,  '  Don't  fear,  my  ]irctty 
countrywoman,  that  we  will  not  grant  your  ])e- 
tition.  Here,  my  dear  girl,  get  in  here  at  once. 
Y'ou  can  ride  with  ns  for  the  first  stage,  and  then 
you  can  take  your  own  i>lacc  ?  You  must  con- 
sent to  pass  as  our  servant.'  As  she  spoke  the 
lady  witii  her  own  hand  turned  the  handle  of  the 
carriage-door  nearest  me.  '  Oh  God  bless  you  ! 
I  am  saved!'  I  said,  and  in  anotlier  instant  I, 
with  baby  in  my  arms,  was  the  occupant  of  the 
fourth  seat  of  the  open  carriage.  As  soon  as  the 
carriage  was  in  motion  I  burst  into  tears,  and 
the  ladies  wei-e  so  delicate  and  discerning  as  to 
leave  me  to  my  sorrow — content  with  their  own 
good  deed,  and  not  troubling  me  with  words.  As 
we  drew  near  the  end  of  the  first  stage  I  became 
composed,  and,  looking  at  the  ladies,  I  saw,  by 
their  i)roud  gentleness  of  face,  that  I  could  trust 


them.  'Now  at  this  town  you  will  assume  your 
new  character,'  said  one  of  them,  witli  a  smile ; 
'what  shall  we  call  you?' — 'Oh  call  me  Etty — 
that  is  my  name,'  I  answered.  So  they  from 
that  time  called  me  Etty.  On  the  second  car- 
riage coming  up  to  us  at  the  post-house,  where 
we  stopped  to  refresh  ourselves  and  the  horses 
(for  the  ladies  were  traveling  slowly  with  their 
own  servants  and  horses),  the  chief  lady  went  to 
it  and  spoke  to  her  children  and  maid-servants, 
who  were  in  it  or  upon  it,  and  gave  directions 
that  I  and  baby  should  be  admitted  into  the  car- 
riage. They  were  lovely  children,  with  blue  eyes 
and  fine  flaxen  curls,  and  I  made  them  love  me, 
during  the  short  time  I  was  with  them,  by  sing- 
ing to  them  and  telling  them  fairy  stories.  '  You 
are  a  capital  nurse,'  the  ladies  said  to  me  fre- 
quently. And  so  I  traveled  with  them  to  Ly- 
ons, where  a  gentleman  joined  the  party,  who,  on 
hearing  my  story  from  the  ladies,  offered  to  take 
me  straight  to  England,  as  he  had  a  ])assport 
made  out  for  himself  and  wife  and  infant.  And 
I  accepted  his  offer  and  parted  from  my  jjreserv- 
ers.  Oh  they  were  so  kind  to  me !  They  did 
not  ask  me  one  question  as  to  my  history  all  the 
time  I  was  with  them !  Not  one  curious  look 
or  ])rying  word  did  they  give  me ;  and  when  I 
took  my  leave  of  them  with  tears  in  my  eyes, 
the  chief  lady  gave  me  a  purse  containing  twen- 
ty pieces  of  gold,  and  said,  '  My  dear  girl,  take 
this.  You  will  want  money  on  first  reaching 
London,  of  which  you  say  you  know  nothing. 
When  you  can  conveniently  do  so,  and  really 
want  the  money  no  longer,  take  it  to  the  Secre- 
tary of  the  Children's  Hospital  in  Marchioness 
Street.  It  is  an  admirable  institution,  and  has 
claims  on  the  affections  of  every  young  mother.' 
And  so  I  parted  with  them,  and  was  taken  to 
London.     This  is  all.     There  is  nothing  more." 

"It  is  enough!"  I  said,  bitterly. 

"  Oh,  it  is  more,  far  more  than  enough.  Dear 
lady,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,"  she  answered,  with 
a  tone  of  deep  commiseration,  in  the  genuine- 
ness of  which  I  was  compelled  to  believe. 

"  Whatever  wrong,  and  injustice,  and  cruel 
deception,"  I  said,  slowly,  "you  may  have  ex- 
jjerienced  from  others,  you  have  none  to  fear  from 
me.  I  ])romise  to  investigate  your  statements — 
and  if  1  find  them  true,  there  is  no  feeling  of 
pride,  or  care  for  myself,  or  even  of  love  for  off- 
spring yet  unborn,  that  I  will  not  sacrifice  to  do 
you  justice.  I  promise  this  ;  and  the  God  who 
watches  over  the  actions  of  his  creatures  shall 
see  that  I  am  true  to  my  word  !  My  husband  is 
abroad — " 

"  I  told  you  so,"  she  put  in  sharply.  "  He  is 
on  his  way  to  Nice ;  or  he  is  there  now,  mar- 
veling that  I  have  fled." 

"My  husband  is  on  the  Continent,"  I  said, 
beginning  again,  without  noticing  her  interrup- 
tion. "During  his  absence  from  liunie  I  will 
investigate  the  Jiicts  on  which  youi-  perfectly  in- 
credible story  rests.  I  will  see  you  again,  when 
I  have  made  the  first  of  those  investigations. 
Where  are  you  living?    What  is  your  address?" 

"  I  am  in  lodgings,"  she  answered,  evasively. 

"Where  is  your  child?"  I  asked,  putting  what 
I  deemed  to  be  my  former  inquiry  in  another 
form. 

She  started  as  if  with  affright,  and  bit  her 
lips,  and  clenched  her  hands,  ere  she  answered, 
"That  I  will  not  tell  you." 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


85 


"I  do  not  bltimc  you,"  I  answered.  "You 
are  right  to  distrust  me.  I  distrust  you.  Until 
we  see  more  elearly  all  the  cireumstiinces  of  our 
cases,  we  must  necessarily  distrust  each  other. 
But  we  nmst  liave  intercourse.  Will  you  make 
an  appointment  to  be  here  this  day  week  at  the 
same  hour  at  which  vou  called  this  morning?" 

"  I  will." 

As  she  said  this  a  pallor  came  over  her  slight 
face,  and  1  saw  that,  the  excitement  of  making 
her  revelations  being  over,  a  reaction  of  the  nerv- 
ous system  was  in  pi'ogress,  and  she  was  in  dan- 
ger of  fainting. 

I  rang  the  bell  instantly  and  ordered  wine  to 
be  brought. 

While  the  servant  was  obeying  my  orders  she 
said,  quickly,  as  if  a  necessity  for  precaution  had 
just  struck  her — "//e — Mr.  retersham — won't 
be  here  so  soon?" 

"  I  do  not  expect  him, "  was  my  reply.  ''But 
should  he  return  sooner  than  I  anticipate,  and 
be  in  the  house  when  you  call,  you  may  rely  on 
not  being  admitted,  but  receiving  instead  a  note 
from  lue  fixing  a  meeting  elsewhere.  The  por- 
ter shall  give  you  the  note  instead  of  admitting 
you.     !So  let  your  mind  be  easy." 

The  wine  came,  and  I  mixed  her  a  tumbler 
of  strong  wine-and-water  and  gave  it  to  her  with 
my  own  hands.  She  drank  the  beverage  with 
avidity — showing  by  her  manner  a  strong  con- 
sciousness of  her  urgent  need  of  a  powerful 
stinuilant.  The  remedy  was  efficacious,  for  the 
color  returned  to  her  complexion — or,  rather  I 
should  say,  the  ghastly  pallor  left  it,  and  rising, 
she  herself  placed  the  empty  tumbler  on  the 
table. 

"Oh,  dear  lady,"  she  said  again,  as  she  had 
done  several  times  before,  avoiding  the  use  of 
my  title  as  a  married  woman,  "you  must  re- 
gard me  as  an  enemy;  bvu  be  a  generous  en- 
emy to  me,  and  say  you  pity  uie.  I  have  been  a 
lieartless,  wayward,  vain,  false  girl — but  now  I 
am  steeped  in  wretchedness.  Surely  you  pity 
me!" 

I  could  not  altogether  resist  this  appeal,  but 
all  the  more  for  that  I  nursed  a  vindictive  scorn 
for  the  simple  and  unhappy  creature  that  had 
such  power  over  me. 

Still  full  of  bitterness  I  answerecf,  "I  pity  you 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  ^ou  arc  pitiable, 
if  you  have  been  wronged — ana  thrice  jiitiable 
if  you  are  only  trying  to  wrong  others." 


CHAPTER  V. 

ST.  Thomas's,  kexningtox. 

Ir  was  incredible  that  l\Ir.  Petersham  had  per- 
petrated such  a  crime  as  the  girl  charged  him 
with  !  That  he  was  the  most  vulgar  and  hateful 
of  criminals,  a  bu/aiiiist,  defeated  in  an  attempt 
to  confine  his  wife  in  a  foreign  town,  to  keep 
her  under  the  surveillance  of  an  agent  (whose 
business  in  all  ])robability  was  the  care  of  insane 
persons),  while  he  himself  was  studious  to  main- 
tain in  England  that  reputation  for  an  observ- 
ance of  domestic  decorum  which  in  Great  Brit- 
ain is  an  affair  of  high  importance  to  the  man 
who  would  succeed  in  public  life.  I  could  not 
believe  it !  Why,  the  circumstances  of  the  im- 
puted crime  made  the   accusation  ridiculous ! 


How,  in  the  first  place,  could  he  expect  that  a 
marriage  duly  solemnized  in  a  London  church, 
with  his  well-known  name  entered  in  a  London 
register,  could  be  a  nuitter  of  secrecy?  Sup- 
l)osiiig  that  in  a  moment  of  weakness  and  mad- 
ness he  had  married  the  girl  as  she  herself  stated, 
and  then,  finding  himself  unable  to  sacrifice  to 
his  foolish  love  the  possession  of  my  wealth,  he 
had  married  again  hoping  to  keep  her  a  secure 
prisoner  in  a  foreign  country— sujiposiug  all  this, 
could  I  credit  that  he  would  have  taken  no  surer 
precautions  for  the  success  of  his  scheme  than 
those  his  victim  (as  she  termed  herself)  enumer- 
ated ? 

Why,  by  her  own  story  she  had  suflPered  no 
bodily  restraint ;  and  was  allowed  so  much  free- 
dom that  she  was  aljle  to  escape  as  easily  as  any 
English  lady  might  drive  from  Hyde  Park  to 
Richmond  Hill.  A  man  of  Mr.  Petersham's 
rank,  guilty  of  a  crime  the  discovery  of  which 
would  sink  him  in  ignominy,  would  take  sm'er 
means  for  its  concealment. 

And  yet  I  found  it  difficult  to  suspect  her  of 
willful  fabrication.  No  one  could  look  in  her 
face  and  not  be  impressed  with  a  belief  in  her 
honesty.  As  I  said  before,  I  tried  to  think  the 
worst  of  her,  and  was  unable. 

This  was  how  I  looked  at  the  affair  for  the  first 
ten  minutes  after  Etty  Tree  had  taken  her  de- 
parture (having  previously  left  with  me  the  date 
of  her  wedding).  But  then  the  horror  of  the 
thought,  "But  ivhut  i/  it  should  he  true?'"  upset 
my  self-possession ;  and  I  reflected  on  all  the 
circumstances  within  my  knowledge  that  in  any 
wa}'  supported  the  statements  of  my  husband's 
accuser.  I  knew  that  Mr.  Petersham  had  seen 
her  at  Laughton  more  than  once,  and  that  he 
had  taken  considerable  interest  in  her.  But  that 
was  throitrjh  vie.  In  Northumberland  I  had  met 
on  my  uncle's  estate  a  splendidly  handsome 
young  man,  Julian  Gower,  who  told  me,  stran- 
ger as  I  was  to  him,  the  story  of  his  love  with 
such  ingenuous  candor  and  enthusiasm  that  he 
carried  me  for  a  few  months  quite  away  from 
common  sense,  and  nothing  suited  me  better 
than  devising  schemes  for  serving  him.  While 
this  romance  was  at  its  height  Mr.  Petei-sham 
was  arranging  to  take  as  an  autumn  residence, 
for  himself  and  Lady  Caroline,  Laughton  Ab- 
bey, the  principal  seat  in  the  county  in  which 
(as  Julian  Gower  had  told  me)  Etty  Tree  lived. 
I  communicated  to  JMr.  Petersham  and  Lady 
Caroline  all  the  circumstances  of  my  interview 
with  Julian  Gower,  and  asked  them,  in  case 
they  hired  the  Abbej^,  to  inquire  in  Laughton  if 
there  was  in  the  neighborhood  any  j'oung  lady 
nam^d  Etty  Tree,  so  surpassingly  lovely  as  she 
had  been  reiiresented  to  me.  Of  course  I  was 
well  laughed  at  by  Lady  Caroline  for  my  folly; 
and  ^Ir.  Petersham,  who  was  a  clever  caricaturist 
with  his  pencil,  drew  on  a  sheet  of  ])aper  a  design 
for  a  grand  allegorical  picture  of  Youthful  Cour- 
age rescuing  Virgin  Indiscretion  from  Darkness 
and  Despair.  Whenever  I  was  a  little  absent 
in  mind,  Laily  Caroline  would  laugh  and  say, 
"Ah,  you  are  roaming  over  that  wild  moor 
again  I"  In  due  course  my  husband  and  his 
mother  went  to  Laughton,  and  to  their  gratifi- 
cation found  the  girl,  in  whom  I  had  interested 
them,  keeping  a  small  school,  together  with  her 
sister,  in  the  corner  of  Laughton  Abbey  park. 

Mr.  Petersham  instantly  wrote  to  me  on  the 


8G 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


subject,  and  by  doing  so  revived  an  interest  that 
liad  almost  died  a  natural  death.  Tiic  steward 
of  liie  Abbey  estate  was  the  younj;  ladies'  chief 
friend  and  i)atron,  and  told  Mr.  retershani  that 
they  were  members  of  a  fallen  county  family. 
Inileed,  Laughton  Abbey  and  the  splendid  jiark 
their  cottage  windows  looked  upon  still  belonged 
to  tlieir  kin.  It  also  appeared  that  they  had  re- 
cently lost  their  grandfather,  a  much-respected 
clergyman,  whose  death  had  left  them  in  very 
straitened  circumstances.  Several  letters  passed 
between  me  and  Lady  Caroline  on  the  subject, 
the  result  of  which  was  that  wo  resolved  to  give 
the  country  schoolmistresses  a  chance  of  improv- 
ing their  worldly  condition,  and  even  of  earning 
a  modest  fortune  for  "the  beautiful  Miss  Etty" 
by  the  time  her  lover  should  return  from  Amer- 
ica. Two  or  tlireq  years  previous  to  the  occur- 
rences just  mentioned,  ^[r.  Reickart,  one  of  the 
jirincipal  clerks  in  "Petersham  and  Blake's"  bank 
in  Lombard  Street,  had  died  under  painful  cir- 
cumstances, leaving  one  little  girl  totally  un])ro- 
vided  for.  As  JMr.  Reickart  had  been  a  useful 
agent  in  the  house,  and  liad  been  for  many  years 
much  respected  by  the  partners,  it  was  determ- 
ined by  5lr.  Petersham  and  his  father  to  give 
the  orphan  Amy  Reickart  a  good  education  and 
a  small  provision  that  would  })lace  her  above  the 
risk  of  absolute  want.  At  my  suggestion  this 
child  was  placed  as  a  pupil  in  ]\Iiss  Tree's  school, 
my  future  husband  generously  offering  to  ])ay 
from  his  private  purse  an  annual  sum  of  £200  for 
her  maintenance. 

This  arrangement,  and  the  pleasure  which  it 
caused  me  for  a  few  days,  soon  passed  from  my 
mind.  Other  interests  rose  to  occupy  my  atten- 
tion ;  and  if  I  did  not  forget,  I  at  least  omitted 
to  remember  that  Julian  Gower,  and  Etty  Tree, 
and  Amy  Reickart  had  ever  moved  across  the 
drama  of  ray  cares.  Laughton  Abbey  had  only 
been  hired  for  three  years,  and  Mr.  Petersham 
only  visited  it  once  after  his  mother's  death,  and 
then  only  for  sliooting.  At  one  time  Mr.  Peter- 
sliam  senior  had  contemplated  purchasing  tjie 
estate,  but  the  certainty  that  the  town  would  be 
disfranchised  at  the  passing  of  the  coming  Re- 
form Bill  caused  him  to  relinquish  the  inten- 
tion. 

I  therefore  knew  that  Mr.  Petersham  had  oc- 
cupied a  position  toward  the  sisters  that  would 
give  him  a  claim  to  their  confidence. 

Again,  it  was  not  to  be  sujjposed  that  ]\Iiss 
Etty  Tree  had  no  foundation  for  her  astounding 
announcement.  i\Ir.  Petersham  had  s])ent  many 
months  in  eacli  of  tlie  two  years  jireceding  our 
marriage  on  the  Continent ;  and,  a  circumstance 
that  troubled  me  still  more  tiian  the  mere  fre- 
quency of  his  foreign  trijis  (which  the  business 
of  the  bank  would  account  for  satisfactorily),  ho 
had  more  than  once  visited  the  jirincipality  of 
Monaco  to  stay  with  his  old  friend  and  scIkjoI- 
fellow  Sir  George  Watcliit.  This  I  was  aware 
of  from  his  own  conmiunications.  Sir  George 
had  a  cottage  at  Castellarc,  wiiere  he  lived  in  a 
studious  retirement.  The  luxurious  yet  invigor- 
ating climate,  and  the  magnificent  scenery  around 
Mentoiie,  had  -made  a  lively  imjjression  on  my 
husband,  and  he  had  more  than  once  expressed 
a  wish  to  take  me  there,  as  that  I  might  share 
in  the  iileasurc  of  some  of  his  reminiscences. 
Startling  as  the  intelligence  was,  it  was  within 
belief  that  Etty  Tree  had  been  there,  u  resident 


I  in  Sir  George's  cottage,  at  the  same  time  as  my 
I  husband.     But  that  being  granted,  in  what  char- 
j  acter  had  she  been  there  ?     It  was  a  source  of 
I  much  painfid  suspicion  that  my  husband   had 
j  never  mentioned  the  girl  in  connection  with  his 
I  periods  of  residence  in  Castellare.     Otherwise  I 
had  no  reason  to  feel  surprise  at  his  never  allud- 
I  ing  to  the  pretty  country  girl,  of  whom  he  had 
j  been  a  benefactor.     Indeed  the  brief  episode  of 
I  my  interest  in  Julian  Gower  and  the  Laughton 
belle  had  been  so  completely  wiped  from  my 
memory  by  the  excitement  of  novel  and  engross- 
ing experiences,  that  I  was  at  no  loss  to  account 
for  my  husband's  having  also  lost  sight  of  it. 

Still  if  Etty  Tree  had  been  his  daily  compan- 
ion at  Castellare  (and  I  could  not  persuade  my- 
self to  disbelieve  that  much  of  her  story),  tv/ii/ 
had  he  not  mentioned  t lie  fact  to  me? 

And  as  I  asked  myself  this  question,  the  hor- 
ror of  the  thought  that  the  accusation  might  be 
true  returned  with  increased  force,  and  drove  me 
almost  beside  myself. 

Could  little  Amy  Reickart  tell  me  any  thing  ? 
Was  she  still  at  Laughton  ?  I  had  never  paid 
tlie  child  any  personal  attention.  Indeed  I  had 
never  in  all  my  life  seen  the  luck]^ss  little  orjjhan. 
I  had  only  heard'  of  her  through  my  husband, 
who,  in  regretting  the  death  of  her  father,  had 
told  me  that  he  and  Mr.  Petersham  senior  had 
determined  to  take  charge  of  her  education,  and 
give  her  (when  she  married  or  came  of  age)  a 
fortune  of  £2000.  Where  was  she  ?  Was  she 
still  a  pupil  in  the  school  at  Laughton?  Was 
the  school  still  carried  on  by  the  elder  IMis^ 
Tree  ?  And  then,  what  could  that  lady,  if  I 
found  her,  tell  me  of  Etty's  course  ?  The  poor 
girl  had  spoken  of  flying  from  her  sister.  Possi- 
bly her  sister  knew  less  of  her  madness  than  I. 

And  again  the  horror  returned  with  increas- 
ing intensity ;  and  an  anticipation,  which  stirred 
my  most  tender  affections,  deeply  as  such  an  an- 
ticipation will  ever  stir  a  woman's  nature,  made 
me  fall  on  my  knees,  and  in  an  agony  of  dread 
offer  a  prayer  to  that  everlasting  Power,  whose 
presence  we  never  feel  so  sensibly  as  when  the 
waters  of  trouble  roll  over  us. 

When  I  rose  from  my  knees  I  was  calmer, 
and  I  soon  resolved  to  visit  Laughton  without 
delay. 

But  first  I  wo§ld  ascertain  if  the  register  of 
the  church  of  St.  Thomas  at  Kennington  con- 
tained any  memorial  of  an  event  which  I  would 
not  believe,  and  yet  could  not  rest  without  dis- 
proving. Had  I  been  only  nineteen  years  of 
age,  and  married  to  a  man  of  years  near  my 
own,  whom  I  had  chosen  to  be  my  husband  from 
no  considerations  save  those  of  love,  I  shoidd  of 
course  indignantly  and  with  an  imijulse  of  the 
heart  have  cast  off  any  suggestions  directed 
against  his  honor,  without  seeking  in  facts  a  jus- 
tification of  my  decision.  But  in  the  simjdest 
and  least  unpleasant  sense  of  the  term  I  was  a 
woman  of  the  world,  accustomed  to  hear,  see, 
and  speak  of  facts  that  put  an  end  to  much  of 
the  ignorance  of  innocence.  My  husband  also 
was  a  man  of  the  world,  honorable  and  humane 
(as  I  had  enjoyed  ami)le  means  of  ascertaining), 
but  still  a  man  who,  ere  he  married  me,  had 
lived  to  the  age  of  forty  years  with  gentlemen 
indulging  in  the  i)ursi!its  and  j)assions  of  fashion- 
able society.  I  was  unable  then  simply  to  say, 
"It  is  false,"  and  to  rest  content. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


87 


The  first  step  to  be  taken  was  the  inspec- 
tion of  the  register  of  St.  Thonias's,  Kenning- 
ton. 

Before  iiroceeding  to  that  locality,  I  deemed 
it  requisite  not  only  to  order  my  carriage,  but  to 
have  an  interview  with  my  coachman,  for  it 
struck  me  as  far  from  improbable  that  he  was  as 
ignorant  of  the  exact  locality  of  Kennington  as 
I  was  myself.  In  this,  however,  I  was  wrong. 
The  coachman  knew  Kennington  Church  well, 
and  also  tlie  clerk's  office  where  the  church  regis- 
ters were  kept.  That  ascertained,  I  ordered  the 
man  to  bring  the  carriage  without  delay. 

For  a  person  jealous  of  her  individual  inde- 
pendence, Mrs.  Wilby  was  a  delightful  com])an- 
ion.  She  never  required  a  reason,  or  explana- 
tion, or  excuse  from  me,  however  glaring  might 
be  the  eccentricities  of  my  behavior.  As  soon  as 
my  visitor  had  departed  lunch  was  announced ; 
whereupon  I  sent  word  to  my  aunt  that,  as  I  did 
not  wish  for  any  lunch,  I  trusted  she  would  not 
keep  the  repast  waiting  for  me.  In  the  same 
off-hand  manner  I  now  sent  her  word  that,  as  I 
was  about  to  take  a  drive  in  the  carriage,  and 
desired  to  be  alone,  she  would  oblige  me  by  tak- 
ing her  airing  in  the  phaeton  without  me,  if  she 
desired  carriage  exercise. 

At  the  expiration  of  half  an  hour  I  drove  up 
to  the  gate  of  St.  Thomas's  Chui-ch  by  a  route 
quite  new  to  me ;  and  when  I  looked  on  all  sides 
as  the  carriage  stopped  I  felt  a  reasonable  con- 
fidence that,  whatever  niight  be  the  excitement 
caused  in  the  neighborhood  by  my  equipage, 
there  was  no  danger  of  my  being  recognized  in 
tliat  quarter  of  the  town. 

The  official  who  had  custody  of  the  register 
of  marriages  expressed  his  surprise  at  my  ap- 
pearance by  staring  at  me  with  a  gaze  of  stupid 
amazement. 

"  Yuu  want  the  register  of  marriages!"  he 
said,  laying  an  accent  of  incredulity  on  the  first 
word  of  the  sentence. 

"  Yes,  my  good  man ;  I  have  told  you  so  half 
a  dozen  times." 

"Beg  your  pardon,  madam,  but  I'm  hard  of 
hearing,  and  I  thought  my  hearing  must  have 
been  mistaken." 

"Well,  you  understand  me  now.  Can  you 
let  me  look  at  the  register  here  in  the  carriage, 
or  shall  I  follow  you  into  your  office  ?" 

"Look  at  the  register  in  the  carriage  I"  ex- 
claimed the  old  man,  elevating  his  chin,   and 
[   putting   his  silver-rimmed  spectacles  closer  to 
[    his  eyes,  so  that  he  might  have  the  best  possible 
view  of  the  woman  who  had  presumed  to  make 
such  an  audacious  proposal.    "Look  at  the  reg- 
ister in  tlie   carriage !     Why,   you    mayn't    do 
that.    You  must  come  into  the  vestry.    But  you 
!    must  come  at  the  proper  time.     The  hours  for 
I    searching  the  registers  are  from  nine  o'clock  in 
I    the  morning  till  luxlf  past  twelve." 
I        Interpreting  this  simple  statement  as  a  mode 
'    of  asking  for  an  additional  fee,  in  consideration 
j    of  the  irregularity  of  my  application  to  see  the 
I    parish  archives,  I  took  from  my  purse  a  couple 
i    of  sovereigns  and  offered  them  to  him. 
'        Instead  of  being  mollified  by  my  liberality,  the 
unaccountable  ofhcial  burst  out  in  a  paroxysm 
of  anger  and  fear  combined.     My  generosity  was 
10  lavish  that  he  look  the  proffered  gold  as  a 
bribe  to  corru])t  liis  honest  purpose  of  holding 
the  church  i)apcrs  in  safe  custody.      "What, 


love  you,  madam — you  don't  think  I'm  going  to 
sell  you  the  registers  in  broad  daylight !" 

He  was  such  a  stupid,  staring,  slow  old  man 
that  I  begun  to  apprelientl  his  sheer  stupidity 
might  cause  me  trouble  of  a  more  serious  nature 
than  two  minutes'  irritation. 

Luckily  old  Johnson,  my  dear  father's  favor- 
ite servant,  was  in  attendance  (standing  at  the 
carriage-door  in  readuiess  to  open  it  for  me), 
and  set  matters  straight  "Nonsense,  old  man" 
(Johnson  was  a  young-looking  man  himself  for 
seventy,  and  was  accustomed  to  adopt  a  dispar- 
aging tone  when  speaking  of  old  age),  "the 
lady  only  wants  to  look  at  the  register,  and  as 
the  lady  would  like  to  come  and  search  tlie  book 
without  a  whole  rabble  <jf  ordinary  folks  look- 
ing on,  she  is  willing  to  give  you  two  pounds 
for  showing  her  the  register  out  of  regulation 
hours." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  functionary,  "that's 
all — that's  all.  Beg  your  ]Jardon,  madam  ;  but 
I  couldn't  suppose  all  that  as  you  didn't  say  it. 
IIoiv  was  I  to  sujipose  it,  madam  ?  Will  mad- 
am be  good  enough  to  leave  her  carriage  and 
walk  into  the  church,  and  'foller'  mc  into  the 
vestry?  You  see,  madam,  no  disrespect  was  in- 
tended, but  only  duty — only  faithful  perform- 
ance of  duty  to  the  parisli,  madam,  and  nothing 
more.  I'll  run  and  fetch  the  church  keys, 
madam." 

Diving  into  his  little  den  of  an  office,  the  cus- 
todian of  the  St.  Thomas's  register  was  lost  to 
my  sight  for  half  a  minute,  when  he  returned 
with  an  imposing  cluster  of  bright  keys  in  his 
hand. 

In  two  more  minutes  I  was  seated  in  the  vest- 
ry, with  the  registry  of  marriages  before  me. 

I  turned  to  the  date  given  me  by  Etty  Tree, 
and  with  a  sharp  fluttering  and  a  faintness  at  my 
heart  looked  for  the  entry  I  feared  to  find. 

It  was  not  there.  Five  marriages  were  in- 
cluded in  the  space  allotted  to  marriages  of  that 
day,  and  I  read  them  all  carefully,  the  names  of 
the  principals,  the  officiating  clergymen,  and  the 
witnesses  ;  but  no  such  names  as  Petersham  and 
Tree  were  among  them.  I  took  the  slij)  of  paper 
from  my  purse,  on  which  JNIiss  Etty  Tree  in  my 
presence  had  written  down  the  date  of  her  mar- 
riage and  the  name  of  the  church  in  which  she 
said  it  was  solemnized.  There  was  no  doubt  as 
to  the  signification  of  her  handwriting.  Every 
letter  was  legible,  and  tlie  date  on  the  slip  was 
the  same  as  that  on  the  portion  of  the  register 
before  my  eyes. 

Possibly  in  her  confusion  of  excitement,  either 
at  lier  wedding  or  in  my  painting-room,  she  had 
made  a  mistake  of  the  day.  As  her  marriage 
took  place  under  circumstances  especially  cal- 
culated to  disturb  her,  she  might  have  been  in 
error  as  to  the  exact  day  on  which  it  was  cele- 
brated ;  or  in  her  agitation  caused  by  her  inter- 
view with  me  two  hours  before,  She  might  have 
written  a  wrong  figure  on  the  paper.  To  satisfy 
myself  on  this  point  I  went  carefully  through  the 
entries  made  in  the  book  during  the  whole  of  the 
October  in  which,  according  to  her  statement, 
the  marriage  took  place.  In  the  same  way  I 
examined  the  registrations  straight  on  till  the  end 
of  the  year.  Then  I  went  back  to  the  day,  and, 
starting  on  a  retrograde  course,  I  worked  back- 
ward througli  the  entries  till  I  came  to  the  be- 
ginning of  the  year. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


Tlie  result  of  that  mucli  of  my  examination 
was  satisfactory.  No  certificate  of  such  a  mar- 
riage was  to  1)0  found. 

1  was  on  the  jtoint  of  rising  and  laying  aside 
the  Ijook,  when  another  thouglit  struck  nie. 
Was  it  possible  that  the  girl  in  her  hurry  had, 
in  giving  the  date,  placed  a  wrong  number 
against  the  year?  That  question  led  to  more 
fruitless  labor,  and  I  went  i)aticntly  through  all 
the  entries  from  the  date  of  iMr.  Petersham's 
first  residence  at  Langhton  up  to  the  time  of  my 
own  marriage.  Wliile  I  was  so  engaged  it  be- 
came dark,  and  Johnson  (having  overcome  the 
objections  of  the  aged  official)  brought  me  a 
candle  into  the  vestry  so  that  I  could  carry  my 
labors  to  a  conclusion  during  that  one  visit  to 
the  church. 

At  length  I  closed  the  dingy  pages  of  the 
register,  and  turned  my  head  in  expectation  of 
finding  tlie  clerk  close  at  my  elbow.  To  m}'  sur- 
prise I  was  alone  in  the  vestry.  I  had  fairly  ex- 
hausted the  patience  of  the  faithful  custodian  of 
public  documents,  and  also  the  endurance  of  my 
good  old  servant,  who  were  both  takhig  a  nap 
on  one  of  the  cliurch  benclies.  Their  sleep,  how- 
ever, was  light,  for  the  little  noise  I  made  in 
rising  from  my  seat  and  moving  across  the  brick 
floor  of  the  vestry  brought  them  to  my  side. 

"Why,  old  man,"  I  said  to  the  clerk,  with  a 
smile,  "you've  been  asleep;  and  while  your  eyes 
were  closed  I  might  have  altered  the  register  in 
any  way  I  pleased." 

The  poor  man  looked  so  conscience-stricken 
and  humiliated  at  this  rebuke  that  I  genuinely 
rejicnted  having  indulged  in  such  freedom  of 
.speech. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "is  this  the  only  book  of 
marriages  you  have  in  the  church?" 

Whatever  question  I  put  to  tliis  strange  old 
man  was  the  cause  of  new  difficulty.  Every 
simplest  word  I  addressed  to  him  had  only  the 
result  of  filling  him  with  consternation  at  my  ig- 
norance of  his  business. 

"Lor  bless  you,  madam,"  he  cried,  in  a  shrill 
voice,  "the  only  book — the  on/j/  book !  Why,  I 
have  six  others.  There  are  six  other  marriage 
registers. " 

"  Tiien  why  didn't  you  show  mc  them  at  first  ?" 
I  asked,  witli  considerable  vexation,  as  1  antici- 
pated a  weary  ]>rolongation  of  my  toil,  termina- 
ting with  the  discovery  I  did  not  wisli  to  make. 

"Because  you  didn't  ask  for  them,"'  was  the 
sharp  answer. 

"Let  me  have  them  instantly,"  I  replied. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  madam"  (raising  his  hands 
and  lowering  his  tone  piteously),  "  do  you  want 
all  of  them?" 

"  Of  course  I  do.     Come,  let  me  have  them." 

"All  at  the  same  time,  madam?"  (with  an  air 
of  resignation.) 

"Ay;  Give  me  tlicm  all.  I  won't  leave  this 
jilace  to-night  till  I  liave  satisfied  my  curiosity. " 

Raising  the  iionderous  lid  of  the  fire-proof 
iron-cliest  in  wliich  the  registers  were  kei)t  the 
custodian  jiroccedcd  to  obey.  "There,  madam, 
there's  the  register  beginning  in  KJOO,  and  here's 
the  IGoO  one." 

"Heaven  protect  my  patience,  man!  I  don't 
want  these  old  books.  I  liave  already  told  you 
the  date  of  the  period  I  wish  to  search." 

"  Well,  madam"  (sorely  ])er])lexcd),  "  and  yon 
have  searched  it." 


"Then  am  I  to  understand  that  all  the  mar- 
riages that  have  l)een  solemnized  in  this  church 
between  (let  me  see — what  is  the  first  date  of  the 
book?) — 1810  and  the  present  time  are  entered 
in  this  book  which  I  have  already  examined  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course,  madam,  every  marriage  is 
there.  How  could  it  be  possible  for  any  mar- 
riage to  escape  being  there?" 

"Then  the  other  six  registers  are  old  ones?" 

' '  To  be  sure,  madam.  Of  course  they're  old 
ones." 

"Then  I  have  no  need  to  occupy  your  time 
any  longer.     Good-morning." 

'■'■(Jood-vwrning,  madam!"  (with  a  start  and  a 
scream  of  surprise) — "good-morning!  Why,  it's 
nirjhl,  and  the  lam))s  is  being  lit  in  the  street, 
and  the  shops  is  being  shut  up." 

"  Good-night,  then.  But  I  forgot.  You  have 
not  taken  your  money  yet.  Here,  I'll  give  you 
another  sovereign  for  having  kept  you  waiting 
so  long.     Here,  take  the  three  sovereigns." 

"But,  madam,"  I'eturned  the  old  man,  soften- 
ing toward  my  ignorance  as  he  regarded  the 
magnitude  of  the  fee,  "you  haven't  had  a  cer- 
tificated co])y  of  any  thing.  I  can't  take  your 
monc}'  till  I  have  done  my  work.  What  certi- 
ficated copies  would  you  wish  me  to  make  out  ?" 

"Dear  me,  old  gentleman,"  said  Johnson, 
loftily,  again  coming  to  my  relief,  "  what  need 
have  j'ou  to  trouble  your  head  about  certificated 
copies?  The  lady  offers  you  the  mono}-,  and 
does  not  want  you  to  do  any  more  work.  Sure- 
ly you  don't  want  to  grumble  at  that  bargain. 
Take  the  lady's  money,  and  thank  her." 

"Oh,  if  that's  all  madam  means — of  course. 
But  how  could  I  have  supposed  it?" 

Once  more  I  was  in  my  carriage. 

"Where  to,  ma'am?"  asked  my  faithful  old 
footman. 

"Home.  But,  Johnson,  isn't  he  a  terribly 
tiresome  old  man  ?" 

"  He's  the  most  ignoromeous  official  I  ever 
met,  ma'am,"  resjionded  Johnson,  with  magnifi- 
cent disdain,  as  he  packed  up  the  steps  and 
closed  the  door. 

In  another  minute  I  was  being  whirled  through 
the  busy  thoroughfares  on  my  way  back  to  l\Iay- 
fair.  The  streets  had  in  truth  the  ordinary  "as- 
pect of  London  streets  on  a  clear,  dry,  cold  night 
in  early  sjiring,  with  shops  lirilliantly  illumina- 
ted, with  pavements  thronged  by  foot-passengers, 
and  with  carriages  and  equestrians  dashing  jiast 
each  other  in  the  mid-road.  But  I  found  it  dif- 
ficult to  jjersuade  myself  that  they  were  not  more 
than  ordinarily  crowded,  and  bright,  and  festive. 
The  people  on  foot  pursuing  or  passing  each 
other  in  xmbroken  currents  struck  me  as  being 
all  bent  ui)on  enjoynient.  The  carriages  aji- 
jieared  to  roll  over  the  dry  ground  with  unpre- 
cedented velocity,  and  with  a  rumble  that  was 
]}ositively  musical.  ^ly  own  horses  seemed  to 
fly.  As  I  crossed  over  the  river,  and  from  the 
bridge  surveyed  the  silent  Thames,  I  did  not 
think  of  its  cold,  deep  silence,  but  the  beauty  of 
the  light  which,  sent  from  factory  and  palace 
and  street  lamj),  ])laycd  iqion  its  surface. 

Any  how  the  marriage  had  never  taken  ]ilace 
as  stated.  That  surely  was  a  cause  for  exulta- 
tion. Why,  it  made  my  heart  dance  witli  tri- 
umph ;  and  that  anticipation  of  coining  glad- 
ness already  mentioned,  b;'Coming  a  living  v.dce 
within  me,  cried — "Rejoice!" 


f 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


89 


And  I  did  rejoice — that  what  had  threatened 
to  be  1111/  cit/iiinity  wonkl  turn  out  to  be  only  an- 
other s  siu .' 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DOWN  THE   KOAD   AND   UP. 

To  sleep  that  night  was  out  of  the  domain  of 
the  jjossible. 

Eiuly  the  next  morning  I  rose  unrefreshed 
from  bed,  and  resolved  to  proceed  without  de- 
lay to  Laughton.  I  could  not  see  my  way  to 
making  inquiries  about  Miss  Etty  Tree  in  that 
town,  cither  by  letter  or  by  third  person,  witli- 
out  communicating  the  subject  of  my  tiioughts 
to  others,  or  in  some  degree  drawing  attention 
to  my  own  uncomfortable  position.  If  I  dis- 
patched a  messenger  into  the  country  to  gather 
intelligence,  I  should  liave  to  make  him  my  con- 
fidant, and  in  all  probability  he  would  impart 
my  secret  to  others.  If  I  wrote  under  an  as- 
sumed name  to  the  clergyman  of  Laughton,  and 
he  answered  my  letter,  I  knew  I  should  be  una- 
ble to  rest  satistied  with  the  information  so  ob- 
tained. 

I  determined,  therefore,  to  be  my  own  S))y, 
and  to  visit  Laughton  with  every  justifiable  care 
to  conceal  my  name  from  its  inhabitants. 

At  first  I  thought  of  traveling  down  into  "  the 
corn  country"  as  a  passenger  of  one  of  the  stage- 
coaches. But  I  relinquished  this  plan  for  two 
considerations.  It  would  any  how  expose  me 
to  the  observation  and  curiosity  of  my  fellow- 
travelers,  among  whom  there  might  possibly  be 
some  one  who  knew  me  personally.  And  again, 
I  felt  that  my  husband  would  have  good  grounds 
for  displeasure  if  he  learned  that  his  wife  had 
m;\de  a  long  journey  in  a  jjublic  conveyance.  It 
was  clearly  best  that,  as  I  was  bent  on  making 
tlie  excursion,  I  should  carry  out  my  intention 
ia  such  a  manner  as  should  violate  none  of  the 
rules  of  society. 

My  course  of  action  was  soon  laid  out. 
"  My  dear  aunt,"  I  said  at  breakfast  to  Mrs. 
"Wilbv,  "I  have  occasion  to  go  into  the  country 
on  imi)ortant  business  for  two  or  tliree  days.    So 

I      do  not  be  alarmed  at  my  absence." 

"  Surely  you  are  not  going  to  Fulham  ?" 

\  "Xo,  not  to  Fulliam." 

I  "  Where,  then  ?" 

I  "That  (question  I  can  not  answer  at  present. 

!      You  must  allow  me  to  be  a  little  mysterious." 

1  "You  would  like  me  to  accompany  you,  I 

'      suppose,  as  Mr.  retersham  is  not  in  Great  Brit- 
ain ?" 

"No,  I  thank  you,  dear  aunt.  I  shall  take 
no  one  with  me  but  my  maid.  I  shall  travel  in 
poor  dear  papa's  traveling-carriage,  which  has 
no  device  on  the  panels,  and  is  fortunately  in 
town.  I  shall  post,  so  I  shall  not  need  the  at- 
tendance of  any  of  our  men." 

Mrs.  Wilby  ojicned  her  eyes  with  astonish- 
ment. In  my  wayward  girlhood  I  had  caused 
them  to  open  in  that  same  way  more  than  once. 
"Remember,  Olive,"  she  said,  mildly,  after  a 
pause,  "you  are  a  married  woman  now,  and  in 
whatever  you  do  you  should  consider  what  your 
husband  would  approve.  You  will  forgive  me 
for  venturing  to  remind  you  of  that.  Don't  be 
'mad  Olive  Blake,'  now  you  are  Mrs.  Peter- 
iham." 


This  was  about  as  decided  a  scolding  as  my 
dear  aunt  had  ever  given  me,  and  I  liked  her 
for  it.  Her  words  were  so  just  and  approjiriate, 
and  withal  they  were  said  so  mildly. 

"Thank  you,  dear  aunt,  for  your  hint,"  I 
said,  rising  and  giving  her  a  kiss ;  "  you  not 
only  are  able  to  give  good  advice,  but  you  have 
the  happy  art  of  giving  it  in  an  acceptable  man- 
ner. 1  had,  however,  thought  of  my  duty  to  my 
husband.  This  journey  I  am  going  to  make  is 
not  a  freak  of  wildness,  but  an  affair  of  duty. 
The  truth  is,  the  young  lady  who  called  on  me 
yesterday  told  me  something  which  I  feel  bound 
to  investigate.  Never  mind  just  now  what  that 
something  is.  My  only  reason  for  not  asking 
you  to  accompany  me  is,  that  I  am  desirous  of 
traveling  faster  tlian  your  strength  would  allow 
me  if  you  were  my  traveling  companion.  Aunt 
Wilby,  you  can  trust  your  niece,  Olive  ?" 

"Surely,  my  dear,"  returned  the  old  lady, 
kindly,  "now  I  hear  you  speak  in  that  voice. 
God  bless  you,  child ;  of  course  I  can  trust  you. 
IIow  long  will  you  be  gone  ?" 

"I  hope  I  shall  not  be  absent  more  than  two 
nights,  or  three  nights  at  the  ntmost." 

In  another  hour  I  was  lying  back  in  the  trav- 
eling-carriage and  studying  the  latest  edition  of 
Paterson's  Road-Book  as  four  post-horses  bore 
me  rapidly  through  one  of  the  eastern  suburbs 
of  London  on  my  way  to  "the  corn  country." 

The  journey  before  mc  required  fifteen  hours 
to  be  spent  on  the  road.  In  this  more  fortunate 
generation  it  requires  only  three  hours,  passed  in 
a  luxurious  car,  flying  at  express  speed,  along 
iron  lines.  I  divided  the  journey  down  to  Laugh- 
ton thus :  I  traveled  twelve  hours  without  stop- 
ping, save  to  change  horses,  the  only  refresh- 
ment I  took  during  that  time  consisting  of  wine 
and  biscuits,  eatcji  in  the  carriage.  Between  1 1 
o'clock  r.  Ji.  and  midnight  I  drove  up  to  the  prin- 
ciiial  inn  in  a  county  town,  within  five  short 
stages  of  Laughton.  Having  refreshed  myself 
with  sleep  there,  I  was  on  the  road  again  by  7 
o'clock  A.M.  ;  so  that  while  the  clock  oir  the  an- 
tique town-hall  was  striking  10  a.m.  I  was  pass- 
ing up  the  High  Street  of  Laughton,  and  in  five 
minutes  more  turned  in  the  rector's  carriage- 
drive. 

The  unexpected  appearance  of  my  carriage 
before  the  Rev.  Augustus  Butterworth's  house 
doubtless  caused  some  excitement  to  its  inmates. 
As  I  spoke  to  the  servant  who  came  out  to  in- 
quire my  business  I  glanced  at  the  windows  of 
tlie  rectory,  and  saw  at  least  seven  human  faces 
directed  toward  me.  On  asking  if  iSIr.  Butter- 
worth  was  at  home,  and  if  I  could  see  him,  the 
man  responded  with  a  prom])t  "  yes,"  o])cned  the 
carriage-door  for  me  so  that  I  could  descend,  and 
then  conducted  me  across  a  light  and  airy  hall. 

"Stay,"  I  said  to  the  man,  remembering  the 
seven  curious  faces,  and  feeling  no  inclination 
to  find  myself  the  centre  of  a  family  grouj),  "as 
my  business  requires  that  I  should  see  Mr.  But- 
tcrworth  alone,  take  me  into  tiie  study — or  some 
room  where  there  are  no  ladies." 

The  immediate  effect  of  this  direction  was  that 
the  servant  turned  to  his  right  hand  (whereas, 
before  I  spoke,  he  was  inclining  to  his  left),  and 
introduced  me  to  a  dingy  room,  furnished  for 
the  most  ]jart  with  fowling-jiicccs,  hunting-whips, 
many  jjairs  of  boots,  and  an  old-fashioned  book- 
shelf, stocked  with  sermons,  eighteenth  century 


90 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


novels,  the  Gentleman's  3fa(/azine,  and  some 
Ti"cutiscs  on  La^\- — written  expressly  for  country 
justices.  Clearly  the  library  was  not  the  strong 
point  of  the  rectory. 

The  Kev.  Augustus  Buttcrworth  was  soon  with 
me,  apologizing  for  his  servant's  stupidity  in 
showing  mc  into  the  library  instead  of  the  draw- 
ing-room. Mr.  Butterworth  was  far  advanced 
in  middle  age,  and  was  a  gentleman,  but  pom- 
pous and  fussy,  as  gentlemen  who  lead  a  country 
life  frequently  arc. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Butterworth,"  I  replied  to 
his  opening  ajiology,  "do  not  blame  your  serv- 
ant, for  I  myself  took  the  liberty  of  asking  him 
to  show  me  into  a  room  where  I  could  see  you 
alone  without  disturbing  your  family.  I  have 
traveled  from  town  to  obtain  some  information 
which  I  think  you,  as  rector  of  this  parish,  can 
give  me  at  once." 

"I  shall  be  most  happy  to  give  any  informa- 
tion in  my  power  to  any  lady  of  my  acquaint- 
ance." 

These  words,  as  far  as  mere  construction  went, 
were  only  a  formal  expression  of  politeness ;  but 
the  accent  laid  on  the  "o/'mj/  acquaintance,"  said 
as  plainly  as  any  sentence,  "  Before  I  can  give 
you  the  information  you  require  I  must  know 
your  name." 

Gentlemen  who  lead  a  country  life  are  fre- 
quently very  curious. 

"If  I  were  a  man,"  I  said,  taking  firm  hold 
of  his  lance,  instead  of  merely  turning  it  aside, 
"you  might  reasonably  say,  'Our  interview 
miist  begin  ^yith  a  statement  of  who  you  are ; ' 
but  a  lady,  who  wishes  to  preserve  an  incognita, 
may  reasonably  expect  to  have  her  humor  in- 
dulged. •  That  you  may  not  misconstrue  my  mo- 
tives for  maintaining  a  reserve  to  you,  Mr.  But- 
terworth, let  me  assure  you  that  considerations 
of  what  is  due  to  others,  more  than  of  what  is 
most  agreeable  to  myself,  induce  me  to  conceal 
my  name." 

Mr.  Butterworth  blushed. 

Gentlemen  who  lead  a  country  life  usually 
blush  when  they  receive  a  rebuff  from  a  lady* 

"I  shall  be  happy,  madam,"  he  said,  stiffly, 
"  to  give  you  any  information  which  I  can  with 
propriety  give  to  a  stranger." 

"The  object  of  my  inquiries  is  a  young  lady, 
named  Tree — Annette  Tree — who  a  few  years — 
three  or  four  j'ears — since  kej)!  a  school  here. 
She  has  recently  appeared  in  the  circle  of  my 
own  early  experiences ;  and  the  welfare  of  those 
most  dear  to  me  requires  that  I  should  be  cor- 
rectly and  minutely  informed  as  to  her  history. 
Can  j'ou  tell  me  in  what  esteem  she  was  held 
while  she  resided  in  this  town?  what  circum- 
stances led  to  her  leaving  it  ?  and  in  what  man- 
ner she  took  her  dejjarture  ?" 

Mr.  Butterworth  bowed,  seated  himself  at  his 
writing-desk,  and  taking  out  a  sheet  of  foolscap 
paper  wrote  down  my  (juestiuns.  He  appeared 
to  regard  himself  as  acting  in  an  official  capacity, 
and  treated  me  more  as  if  I  were  a  witness  under 
cross-examination  than  as  if  he  were  being  ex- 
amined by  me. 

"You  have,  madam,  asked  me  three  qties- 
tions,"  he  then  said,  "relative  to  a  young  per- 
son, whose  lirief  and  sad  career  in  this  town  is 
only  too  well  known  to  every  inhabitant  of  this 
neighborhood.  Question  No.  1 .  In  what  esteem 
was  the  young  person  named  Etty  (short  for  An- 


nette) Tree  held  during  her  residence  in  Laugh, 
ton  ?  Question  No.  2.  What  were  the  circum- 
stances that  led  to  her  leaving  Laughton? 
Question  No.  3.  In  what  manner  did  she  leave 
Laughton  ?  To  answer  these  questions  it  is  nec- 
essary that  I  should  speak  freely  to  you  (a  stran- 
ger to  mc)  of  the  character  of  a  person  who 
doubtless  would  not  fail  to  use  every  possible 
means  in  her  power  to  be  revenged  on  those 
sjieaking  the  truth  of  her.  I  might,  therefore, 
from  prudential  motives,  reasonably  decline  to 
YQ\)\y  to  your  interrogatories ;  but  it  so  h:ip])ens 
that  I  can  readily  conceive  it  to  be  my  duty  to 
act  otherwise.  The  young  person  in  question, 
namely,  Etty  (short  for  Annette)  Tree,  is  such  a 
character  that  I  can  well  understand  individuals 
of  her  own  sex  may  need  to  be  put  on  their  guard 
against  her.  I  will  therefore  answer  your  ques- 
tions fully ;  but  as  I  do  so  I  will  make  an  ab- 
stract of  my  replies  on  this  sheet  of  paper,  and 
you  shall  a])pend  a  statement  to  such  abstract, 
testifying  that  it  is  an  accurate  condensation  of 
my  ■\erbal  communications  to  you.  To  such 
statement  I  shall  not  require  your  signature. 
Your  handwriting  Avill  be  sufiicient." 

I  have  more  than  once  observed  that  gentle- 
men who  have  lived  long  in  the  country  are  very 
fond  of  drawing  up  statements  of  occurrences. 

"Question  No.  1,"  continued  the  Kev.  Au- 
gustus Buttei'worth,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff  out 
of  a  gold  snuft'-box,  "In  what  esteem  was  the 
young  person  named  Etty  (short  for  Annette) 
Tree  held  during  her  residence  in  Laughton? 
Answer.  In  the  highest  possible  esteem.  She 
was  singularly  fortunate  in  her  personal  endow- 
ments. Indeed  in  a  higher  rank  of  life  her 
beauty  woiild  have  advanced  her  to  the  highest 
eminence  of  social  distinction.  My  son,  Captain 
Mervin  Butterworth,  of  the  Royal  Artillery,  did 
not  hesitate  to  call  her  'one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful girls  he  hod  ever  danced  with.'  My  sister, 
Miss  Argentine  Butterworth,  was  not  less  struck 
M'ith  her  personal  attractions,  and  was  so"  misled 
by  them  as  to  form  a  high  opinion  of  her  dispo- 
sition and  moral  qualities.  Indeed  I  and  my 
family  gave  the  young  person  and  her  sister  that 
countenance  (on  their  first  opening  a  school  in 
the  Abbey  Cottage)  without  which  new-comers 
would  in  vain  hope  to  succeed  in  Laughton. 
My  countenance  won  for  the  orphan  sister  the 
cordial  aid  of  Mr.  Rufus  Choate  of  this  town  (an 
intelligent  and  much  respected  apothecary),  and 
also  that  of  Mr.  Gurley,  an  attorney  of  this  town, 
and  also  a  highly  res])cctable  man.  The  re])re- 
sentations  made  by  my  sister  Argentine  to  the 
late  Lady  Caroline  Petersham  (who  then  resided 
at  Laughton  Abbey,  with  her  son,  the  well- 
known  capitalist,  and  my  very  good  friend,  Mr. 
Arthur  Petersham)  induced  that  lady  also  to 
countenance  the  Miss  Trees,  and  ultimately  led 
Mr.  Arthur  Petersham  to  place  his  ward  (a  lit- 
tle girl  named  Amy  Reickart)  in  their  school. 
Not  content  with  these  exertions  on  behalf  of  the 
young  peo]ile,  my  sister  Argentine  procured  them 
the  daughters  of  several  of  our  county  neighbors 
as  pu])ils,  and  so  advanced  their  interests  that 
they  were  able  to  heighten  their  terms,  and  ob- 
tain a  flourishing  school.  If  they  had  onh'  had 
moral  character,  they  might  have  achieved  not 
only  com])etence  but  affluence  in  this  town  ;  for 
had  they  continued  to  ap]iear  to  deserve  it,  I  and 
my  sister  Argentine  would  never  have  withdrawn 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


91 


our  countenance  from  tliom.  You  may  there- 
fore see  that  the  vounj;;  ]iersou  was  held  in  hif,'li 
esteem  during  lier  residence,  here,  when  I  tell 
you  that  she  succeeded  in  concealing  her  true 
character  from  myself  and  my  sister  Argentine 
up  to  the  very  time  of  her  scandalous  departure. 
This  is  my  answer  to  Ouestion  No.  1 ;  and  I  will 
write  down  the  substance  of  it  before  I  proceed 
to  answer  Question  No.  2." 

After  using  his  pen  for  about  ten  minutes,  Mr. 
Butterworth  was  satisfied  with  the  completeness 
of  his  abstract,  and  continued,  "  Question  No.  2. 
What  circumstances  led  the  young  person  to 
Iea\w  Laughton?  In  the  lirst  place,  my  answer 
is  (briefly),  that  the  circumstances  were  infamous. 
In  the  second  place,  I  will  endeavor,  without 
shocking  your  feelings,  to  detail  what  they  were. 
As  I  have'  already  stated,  the  late  Lady  Caroline 
Petersham  was  induced  by  my  sister,  Jliss  Ar- 
gentine Butterworth,  to  offer  the  young  person 
and  her  sister  considerable  attention.  Like  my 
sister.  Lady  Caroline  was  led  away  by  her  nat- 
ural amiability.  Her  ladyship's  conduct  was 
indiscreet,  but  it  was  certainly  kind.  She  had 
the  two  young  persons  frequently  to  the  Abbey 
when  there  were  no  visitors  who  could  be  pained 
by  being  brought  into  familiar  intercourse  with 
young  women  of  their  humble  condition.  The 
consequences  of  Lady  Caroline's  goodness  wei-e 
most  painful.  Perhaps  the  young  person's  van- 
ity, tickled  by  the  flattering  attention  paid  her, 
imagined  that  her  beauty  could  win  for  her  a 
matrimonial  alliance  witli  the  aristocracy.  I  am 
willing  to  believe  that  her  guilt  had  its  origin 
in  that  foolish  notion,  and  in  no  more  hideous 
source.  A  constant  visitor  at  the  Abbey  during 
the  residence  there  of  Lady  Caroline  and  her  son 
was  Sir  George  Watchit,  K.B. — then  Major 
Watchit — the  officer  who  only  the  other  day  pre- 
served an  important  section  of  our  Indian  em- 
pire. An  energetic  and  highly  accomplished^ 
but  singularly  taciturn  man.  Major  Watclut  (for 
it  will  be  better  to  speak  of  him  by  the  rank  and 
title  he  then  held)  had  all  the  virtues  and  faults 
of  a  gallant  soldier.  Highly  honorable  in  all 
other  respects.  Major  Watchit  showed  by  his 
conduct  that  his  notions  of  right  and  wrong  in 
all  tliat  related  to  the  gentler  sex  were  of  the 
laxest  morality.  I  am  loth  to  speak  with  dis- 
respect of  so  splendid  and  brave  a  commander — 
the  more  so  as  I  sliot  with  him  several  times  in 
two  following  years,  and  found  him  a  consum- 
mate sportsman — but  still  I  am  compelled  to  ad- 
mit that  on  one  subject  his  life  is  reprehensible 
in  the  extreme.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  make  an 
easy  trium))h  of  the  foolish  girl  who  had  been 
thrown  across  his  path.  Possessed  of  many  ac- 
complishments, he  was  a  good  musician,  play- 
ing several  instruments  with  great  and  powerful 
effect — among  others,  the  organ.  Of  the  several 
benefits  I  conferred  on  the  young  person  and  her 
sister,  the  post  of  organist  in  my  church  was 
one.  The  ratepayers  at  my  direction  raised  the 
salary  of  their  organist  from  £25  per  annum  to 
£30  per  annum,  and  I  gave  the  post  to  the  young 
person's  eldest  sister,  the  young  person  herself 
being  permitted  to  assist  her  sister  in  the  dis- 
charge of  the  duties.  It  was  the  young  person's 
custom  to  practice  the  organ  almost  every  even- 
ing during  the  summer  and  autumn  months. 
Having  by  my  permission  the  unrestnctcd  use 
of  a  key  of  the  church,  she  used  to  enter  the 


church  hy  herself,  and  play  on  the  organ,  alone, 
for  hours  together.  After  her  scandalous  de- 
l)arturel  found  that  Major  Watchit  had,  during 
the  preceding  five  orsix\vecks,  been  accustomed 
to  meet  her  clandestinely  in  the  church,  and  in- 
struct her  in  the  art  of  managing  that  solemn 
instrument  by  the  judicious  use  of  which  wc  add 
so  greatly  to  tiie  sublime  efi'ect  of  our  church 
services.  As  this,  madam,  is  my  answer  to 
Question  No.  2,  I  will,  with  your  permission, 
pause  and  make  another  abstract." 

On  the  completion  of  the  second  abstract  Mr. 
Butterworth  again  cleared  his  voice  and  re- 
sumed, "Question  No.  3.  In  what  manner  did 
the  young  jjerson  leave  Laughton  ?  Tlie  young 
person,  madam,  left  Laughton  by  night,  secret- 
ly, in  a  carriage  drawn  by  four  post-horses, 
with  ^lajor  Watchit,  who  immediately  took  her 
abroad.  The  last  I  heard  of  her  was  that  she 
was  in  the  south  of  Europe,  living  witli  Major 
Watchit  as  (you'll  excuse  the  word)  his  '  mis- 
tress.' What  became  of  her  when  that  gentle- 
man returned  to  India  I  do  not  know.  Of  her 
present  life  I  am  altogether  ignorant.  I  should 
add,  as  i\Ir.  Petersham's  name  has  been  intro- 
duced several  times  into  my  answers,  that  no- 
thing could  exceed  the  surprise,  consternation, 
grief,  and  anger  of  that  gentleman,  when  he 
was  informed  of  Major  Watchit's  unjustifiable 
conduct.  He  called  on  me  during  the  early 
part  of  the  day  after  the  major's  clatulestine  de- 
partiire  with — with — the  young  person.  And 
in  the  following  autumn,  when  he  Ciime  to  the 
Abbey,  and  staid  three  nights  before  going  on 
the  Continent,  his  mortification  at  his  old  school- 
fellow's flagrant  indiscretion  was  by  no  means 
lessened.  A  gentleman  of  the  highest  honor, 
an  unassuming  Christian,  and  a  stanch  support- 
er of  our  ancient  institutions, -Mr.  Arthur  Peter- 
sham was  greatly  antl  genuinely  affected.  In- 
deed, to  his  sorrow  at  the  painful  occurrence 
may  be  attributed  his  declining  to  purchase  the 
Abljcy  estate,  when  the  descendants  of  the  fam- 
ily of  the  Clares  sold  it  some  two  years  since. 
This  is  all  I  have  to  say,  madam ;  I  will  there- 
fore draw  up  another  abstract,  and  then  having 
read  over  to  you  all  the  notes  of  my  entire  state- 
ment, ask  for  the  certificate  of  youi"  handwrit- 
ing." 

Another  quarter  of  an  hour  was  thus  con- 
sumed ;  but  at  the  expiration  of  that  time  the 
pompous,  prosy  gentleman  finished  reading  his 
abstracts,. and  I  wrote  beneath  them :  "The  fore- 
going absti-act  of  statements  made  by  the  Rev. 

Augustus  Butterworth  to  me  on  this day 

of is  minute  and  truthful. — The  Unhnoivn 

Lacli/.^' 

'•By-the-by,"  said  I,  remembering  a  ]ioint  of 
some  importance  when  these  formalities  had 
been  brought  to  a  conclusion,  "what  has  become 
of  the  elder  sister?  Does  she  still  keep  the 
school  ?" 

"Miss  Tabitha  Tree  left,"  answered  the  rec- 
tor, "this  town  by  the  night-mail,  almost  im- 
mediately (let  us  say,  with  the  interval  of  two 
or  three  days)  after  her  sister's  departure.  She 
went  to  London,  but  what  has  become  of  her  I 
can  not  say.  She  was  altogether  an  inferior 
person  to  her  sister,  being  small,  and  of  homely 
apjicarance.  Whether  she  is  morally  superior 
to  her  abandoned  sister  I  can  not  say,  but  I  have 
no  very  high  opinion  of  her.     My  sister  Argeu- 


92 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


tine  thinks  her  'sly,'  and  I  should  not  wonder 
if  that  is  the  case.  I  understand  that  slie  has 
■written,  since  her  departtiro,  to  her  jjarticulur 
friend,  Mrs.  Gurley  (the  wife  of  our  jirincijjal 
attorney,  whom  I  have  already  mentioned),  and 
she  says  that  she  is  in  comfort,  as  far  as  lier 
worldly  circumstances  are  concerned  ;  but  as  to 
the  means  from  which  that  comfort  is  derived  I 
can  not  even  ofier  a  suggestion.  Possibly  she 
participates  in  some  way  in  tlie  fruits  of  her  sis- 
ter's misconduct.  Sir  George  Watehit  is  (I  be- 
lieve) rich,  and  would  probably  be  inclined  to 
act  generously  to  the  young  woman's  sister.  But 
of  that  I  know  nothing.  A  most  suspicious  fact, 
however,  is,  that  since  her  departure  Miss  Tabi- 
tha  Tree  has  never  drawn  a  single  ])enny  from 
a  considerable  sum  of  money  lying  in  her  name 
at  our  bank." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  for  me  to  sec  Mr. 
Gurley  before  leaving  the  town?"  I  suggested. 

"Well,  you  can  please  yourself,  madam,  about 
that,"  replied  the  rector,  smiling  humorouslj',  as 
though  he  wished  to  imply  that  Mr.  Gurley  was 
the  strangest,  and  most  unaccountable,  and  most 
ludicrous  parishioner  imaginable,  "but  I  don't 
think  Gurley  will  help  you  much.  He  is  a  very 
worthy  and  honorable  man,  but  a  fussy  man 
— good-natured  and  well-meaning,  but  still — 
Well,  if  you  go  to  Gurley,  you  may  be  sure  of  a 
civil  reception,  but  you  must  make  up  your  mind 
to  be  bored  a  little.  The  fact  is,  Gurley  likes  to 
make  .1  great  deal  of  fuss  about  matters  of  veiy 
small  importance." 

"Then  as  I  have  no  need  to  trouble  yoti  fur- 
ther, Mr.  Butterworth,""  I  said,  "I'll  bid  you 
good-morning,  with  many  thanks  for  the  atten- 
tion you  have  paid  me." 

"I  should  advise  you,"  returned  the  rector, 
shaking  the  hand  I  offered  him,  "if  you  want 
further  information  to  go  straight  to  Mr.  Peter- 
sham himself.  He  is  an  excellent  man,  and 
would,  I  am  sure,  receive  with  courtesy  any  lady 
of  condition  and  bearing. " 

I  did  not  stop  to  ask  JNIr.  Butterworth  what  he 
understood  by  "a  lady  of  condition  and  bear- 
ing," and  was  moving  away,  when  he  called  me 
back,  and  said,  "I  think  though,  before  you 
leave,  it  would  be  a  wiser  and  more  prudent 
course,  if  you  permitted  me  to  append  to  my  ab- 
stract a  curt  summary  of  the  additional  and  sup- 
plemental conversation  that  has  just  passed  be- 
tween us." 

There  being  no  coiu'sc  open  to  me  but  sid3- 
mission,  I  of  course  resumed  my  seat,  and  did 
not  take  my  departure  till  I  had  lieard  the  sum- 
mary of  the  additional  and  suj)i)lemcntal  con- 
versation read,  and  had  testified  to  its  correct- 
ness by  my  handwriting. 

At  length  I  regained  my  carriage,  and  hav- 
ing directed  that  I  should  be  taken  to  the  princi- 
pal inn  of  the  town,  I  there  oVttained  fresli  horses. 
After  driving  througli  the  Abbey  park,  and  in- 
specting the  exterior  of  tlie  mansion  and  the 
cottage,  in  which  I  had  a  ])ainful  interest,  I 
proceeded  forthwith  upon  my  journey  uj)  to  town. 

On  Mr.  Gurley  I  did  not  call ;  for  I  judged 
that  he  could  tell  me  notliing  it  was  im])ortant 
for  me  to  know.  Kelieved  of  certain  additions, 
due  to  tlie  insolence  and  droll  arrogance  of  his 
nature,  tlic  conmmnications  of  Mr.  Butterworth 
were  quite  reliable,  and  altog(!ther  sufficient  for 
my  purpose.     I  had  learned  from  him — the  rec- 


tor of  the  parish,  and  a  man  highly  respected 
(as  I  knetv)  in  the  neighborhood — that  Etty  Tree 
was  as  abandoned  and  sliameless  as  she  was 
beautiful.  What  her  object  was  in  forcing  her- 
self into  my  house  with  an  impudent  lie  (now 
proved  to  be  "a  lie"  by  my  reference  to  the  reg- 
isters of  St.  Thomas's,  Kennington,  and  by  the 
result  of  my  journey  to  Laughton)  I  could  not 
say,  and  did  not  care  to  inquire. 

My  husband's  reason  for  never  alluding  to  the 
wretched  girl  was  also  clear.  Her  history  was 
to  him  a  subject  of  acute  pain — because  I,  his 
wife,  had  taken  a  passing  fit  of  poetic  interest  in 
her  fortunes  ;  and  because  she  had  been  im^one 
(at  least,  as  far  as  her  gravest  sin  was  concerned) 
by  his  old  school-fellow  and  friend — whom  he 
dearly  loved,  and  I  had  been  taught  to  think  of 
with  respect.  While  I  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
the  jjoor  girl's  existence,  it  was  only  natural  that 
he  should  avoid  recalling  a  subject  fraught  witli 
sorrow  to  my  mind. 

That  night  I  slept  at  the  same  inn  as  I  staid 
at  on  my  downward  journey ;  and  the  next  night, 
shortly  before  12  o'clock  p.m.,  utterly  prostrated 
with  excitement  and  fatigue,  I  was  lifted  from 
my  carriage  in  Grosvenor  Square,  and  was  wel- 
comed into  my  own  house  with  a  kiss  and  an 
embrace  from  dear  Aunt  Wilby. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE     APPOINTMENT. 

The  week  came  round,  and  on  the  appointed 
day  Etty  Tree  presented  herself  in  Grosvenor 
Square.  If  I  had  not  pledged  my  word  to  re- 
ceive her,  I  should  have  directed  the  porter  to 
denj'  her  admission  ;  but  it  appeared  to  me  right 
to  keep  a  promise — even  to  her. 

I  received  her 'in  the  library.  More  pale,  and 
delicate,  and  careworn  (as  if  the  intense  excite- 
ment of  reckless  adventure  were  trying  her  nerves 
beyond  their  capability  of  endurance),  but  even 
lovelier  to  look  ujjon  than  at  our  first  interview, 
she  entered  the  room  witli  the  same  light  step 
and  winning  timidity  of  address.  This  time, 
however,  she  did  not  come  close  up  to  me.  As 
on  the  former  occasion,  she  extended  both  her 
hands  slightly  as  she  approached ;  but  when  I 
rose,  and,  drawing  myself  to  my  full  height,  fixed 
my  gaze  njjon  her  with  searching  scrutiny,  she 
knew  that  lier  place  was  to  be  at  a  distance  from 
me.  My  look  forbade  her  to  advance,  and  she 
stofiped  still,  where  a  copy  of  the  Venus  of  jMilo, 
in  marble  of  dazzling  whiteness,  looked  down 
upon  her.  As  my  vision  rested  on  the  form  of 
the  eloquent  stone  and  the  fair  outline  of  the 
girl's  soft  face,  the  thought  crossed  me  whether 
tlie  beauty  (dead  in  the  silence  covering  tliou- 
sands  of  generations)  which  had  wanned  the 
sculptor's  breast  gave  i)ower  for  ill  to  one  as 
wicked  as  the  fair  creature  before  me. 

She  answered  my  steady  gaze — not  with  a 
glow  of  shame,  nor  with  a  flash  of  defiance,  nor 
even  with  the  discomfort  of  abasliment,  but  with 
a  look  of  innocent  surprise.  Perhaps  there  was 
trouble  in  her  face,  but  surely  not  one  sign  of 
guilt.  Could  nothing,  I  asked  myself,  dash  her 
serene  hjqiocrisy  ? 

"I  have  been  to  the  church,"  I  said,  expect- 
ing that  that  would  touch  her. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


93 


"Well?"  she  answered,  quietly. 

"I  have  inspected  the  register,"  I  continued. 

"Well?"  she  replied  again,  adding,  however, 
as  I  remained  silent,  "you  might  as  well  have 
believed  mc." 

There  was  no  eliange  of  color  in  her  calm 
face  as  she  said  this,  and  she  stood  unshaken. 

I  thouglit  I  would  touch  another  string. 

''Since  you  were  here  I  have  made  a  journey 
down  to  Laughtou." 

She  did  start  tlicn,  and  a  pang  shot  through 
her;  but  she  only  said,  "What!  to  see  my  sis- 
ter?    I  could  not  dare  to  see  her  now." 

"If  you  went  there  you  would  not  find  her. 
The  cottage  has  no  tenant." 

"What !"  she  exclaimed  with  a  scream,  start- 
ing as  a  patient  does  under  an  electric  shock, 
"is  she  dead?" 

Was  she  then  so  wicked? — a:id  did  she  still 
care  for  her  sister  ? 

"And  what  if  she  be,  girl  ?"  I  answered,  pour- 
ing upon  her  all  the  pent-up  forces  of  my  scorn, 
and  loathing,  and  hate.  "  What  if  she  bo  ? 
She  were  better  dead  than  living  to  see  you  in 
your  shame,  perjured  to  your  own  true  love — 
perjured,  I  say,  to  Julian  Gower — and  cast  off 
as  the  vile  thing  you  are  by  your  seducer.  I 
wish,  in  mercy  to  her  not  less  than  in  anger  to 
yourself,  I  could  add  one  grain's  weight  to  the 
consciousness  of  crime  and  degradation  that 
must  lurk  under  your  pretty  form,  by  being  able 
to  tell  you  she  were  dead.  But  I  did  not  hear 
that.  All  I  learned  was  that  soon  after  your 
midnight  flight  with  my  husband's  friend — to 
whom  you  sold  j^our  beauty  for  gold — she  too 
fled.  Some  perhaps  say  she  fled  for  shame, 
powerless  to  endure  the  ignominy  brought  upon 
her  by  your  sin.  Others  say  she  only  left  Laugh- 
ton  in  order  that  she  might  share  in  the  golden 
fruits  of  your  degradation.  That  cry  of  yours  I 
believe,  though  it  is  almost  the  only  true  utter- 
ance that  has  come  to  me  from  your  lips.  You 
don't  know  where  your  sister  hides  her  head,  dis- 
honored by  your  inex]jiable  guilt.  Imagine  her 
then  in  some  wretched  lurking  den  of  poverty — 
and  know  that  it  is  the  home  to  which  you  have 
brought  her.  What !  I  have  touched  you  now  ? 
You  bore  my  gaze  unmoved  wlien  I  told  you  I 
had  seen  the  register  which  gave  the  lie  to  your 
fabrication.  You  were  disturbed  only  for  an  in- 
stant when  I  told  you  of  my  journey  to  Laugh- 
ton,  where  your  infamy  and  JVIajor  Watchit's  tri- 
umph are  the  jest  and  gossip  of  vilhige  profli- 
gates. But  now  you  are  stirred  at  the  thought 
of  your  sister.  Tiiink  of  Iier,  then.  Think,  too, 
of  Julian  Gower.  Remember  him  as  he  was 
when  he  lavished  his  royal  love  on  your  miser- 
able vileness,  and  then  think  of  liim  as  lie  is 
now,  heart-broken  in  a  pestilential  climate.  Re- 
call your  hopes  when  you  were  an  innocent  girl, 
walking  in  the  old  garden  round  your  hajipy 
home — your  visions  of  coming  joy,  when  you 
should  be  his  one  companion,  his  solace  and  his 
pride.  Recall,  I  sa}',  the  future  that  then  lay 
before  you,  and  compare  it  with  the  days  fast 
coming  upon  you — the  days  that,  distant  as  they 
may  be,  haunt  you  now,  as  they  will  forever 
haunt  you,  though  you  dare  not  look  at  them." 
I  stopped,  not  because  I  had  exhausted  my 
bitterness,  but  rather  because  I  was  faint  frorii 
agitation. 

Then  she  approached  me.     I  still  looked  at 


her — proudly  and  forbiddingly  as  ever ;  but  my 
eye  had  lost  its  charm  over  her.  Nearer  she 
came,  till  she  was  quite  close  to  me.  Then  she 
regarded  me.  She  was  taller  than  I,  and  as 
she  gazed  down  ujjon  me  I  was  forced,  despite 
my  will,  to  look  up  at  her ;  and  as  I  did  so  I 
saw  in  her  violet  eyes  true  tears  of  tender- 
ness, such  as  good  women  shed  for  those  they 
love. 

"Oh,  poor  lady,"  she  said,  in  clear  silver 
notes,  "from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  pity  you. 
Last  time  when  I  was  here  I  asked  you  to  pity 
me.  It  is  now  my  turn  to  pity.  I  have  been 
a  wicked,  vain,  heartless  girl ;  but  indeed  you 
wrong  me ;  and  in  His  own  time  God  will  jjrovc 
me  innocent  of  what  you  lay  to  my  charge." 

She  said  no  more,  but  turning  away  left  me. 
As  she  departed  my  eyes,  instead  of  following 
her,  fell  to  the  ground  ;  and  wlien  I  raised  them 
agam  they  met  only  the  cold  statue. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


MY    HUSBAND  S    RETURN. 


Eight  days  intervened  between  my  second  in- 
terview with  Etty  Tree  and  the  return  of  my 
husband — eight  days  passed  by  me  in  fever  of 
body  and  in  mental  restlessness.  My  physician 
called  my  malady  a  nervous  fever.  'Tis  the 
name  always  given  by  doctors  to  a  great  lady's 
indisposition,  when  they  know  neither  its  cause 
nor  its  proper  treatment. 

When  Mr.  Petersham  returned  he  too  seemed 
worn  and  harassed ;  but  he  professed  himself 
glad  to  be  at  home  again.  The  pallor  and  un- 
usual delicacy  of  my  face  (thougli  I  had  used 
every  art  of  the  toilet  to  obliterate  all  traces  of 
illness)  struck  iiim,  immediately  he  entered  the 
room  (where  I  lay  on  a  sofa)  and  put  an  end  to 
our  temporary  separation.  He  inquired  the  cause 
of  my  altered  looks ;  and  as  he  did  so,  I  tliought 
his  scrutinizing  eyes  Avere  unusually  keen  and 
significant,  but  that  might  have  been  nothing 
more  than  a  ground-fancy  of  my  excited  mind. 

"  S-something  h-has  gone  wrong  with  you, 
Olive.  W-what  is  it?"  Tlie  voice  in  which 
he  said  this  was  very  soft  and  winning.  "  Come, 
tell  me.  Though  it  be  bad  news,  and  I  am  but 
just  back  from  a  journey  of  much  grief  and  no 
profit,  let  me  know  all." 

"A  fortnight  since  I  was  cruelly  disturbed, 
Arthur,  by  a  girl  named  Etty  Tree,  tlic  girl  we     I 
tried  to  help  years  since.     Slie  lias  been  here,     ' 
and  I  have  seen  her  twice."' 

He  started,  as  he  well  might ;  and  when  he 
first  spoke  he  stammered  considerably — but  then 
a  slight  hesitation  at  tlie  commencement  of  each 
of  his  sentences  was  a  natural  defect  with  him. 
lie  was  siiocked  by  my  announcement,  but  only 
on  my  account. 

"M-my  p-poor  Olive,"  he  said,  battling  with 
liis  vocal  impediment,  "you  have  indeed  good 
reason  to  look  pale.  How  she  must  have  alarmed 
you  !     Who  was  with  you  ?" 

"  No  one  besides  the  girl.     I  saw  her  twice." 

"B-by  Il-IIeavens,  how  fearful!"  exclaimed 
my  husband.  "Imagine  it,  you  to  hear  that 
poor  mad  girl's  story,  and  to  be  with  her — with- 
out a  protector!  Was  it  not  a  fearful  spectacle, 
tliat  matchless  beauty  clothing  a  shattered  mind  ? 


94 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


Wliy,  Olive,  I  have  wept  over  it,  hard  man  as  I 
am.     Dill  it  not  well-nigh  kill  you  ?" 

"I  did  not  know  she  was  mad.  She  was  so 
collected,  and  calm,  and  in  cveiy  respect  so  like 
a  sane  jjerson,  that — that — " 

"T-tliat  y-you  believed  her  story?  S-surely 
n-not,  Olive?" 

"No — no  !"  I  exclaimed,  earnestly  protesting 
against  the  accusation  of  distrust  implied  by  his 
questions.  "I  did  not  put  faith  in  her  state- 
ments, but  they  haunted  me  so  that  I  could  not 
forbear  from  journeying  down  to  Laughton  to 
make  inquiries  about  her.  Are  you  disjdeased 
with  me  for  that?" 

"  D-displeased,  0-Olivc?"  he  answered,  cord- 
ially. "I  am  heartily  glad  you  did  so.  It 
was  the  proper  step  for  my  wife  to  take.  Why 
should  I  be  angry  with  you  for  taking  it  ?" 

"  I  did  not  discern  that  her  intellects  were  dis- 
ordered, I  only  thought  her  very  wicked.  Her 
statements  were  so  surpassingly  terrible!" 

"Y-you  n-need  not  repeat  them,  my  dear," 
said  my  husband,  regaining  all  his  composure, 
"I-I  kn-know  them  well.  Poor  thing!  her 
historjr  is  the  most  cruel  story  of  crime  and  fast- 
pursuing  punishment  that  any  romancist  could 
invent.  I  have  no  need  to  go  over  each  of  the 
ghastly  facts  to  you,  as  you  have  learned  them 
for  yourself.  I  will  only  toucli  on  such  jioints 
as  are  necessary  for  yon  in  order  to  understand 
my  relations  with  her,  and  to  ])erceive  the  prin- 
cipal features  of  her  remarkable  hallucination. 
W-when  W-Watchit  (with  that  sad  want  of 
principle  which  has  throughout  life  been  his 
chai'acteristie  on  one  subject,  but,  in  justice  as 
well  as  friendship  to  him,  I  am  bound  to  add, 
on  that  one  subject  only^  carried  her  away  from 
Laughton,  my  surprise,  and  indignation,  and 
sorrow  were  such  that  they  threw  me  upon  a  bed 
of  sickness.  Watchit  took  the  girl  witli  him  to  a 
mountain  village  in  Monaco,  to  his  cottage  in 
Castellare,  that  you  have  often  heard  me  speak 
about,  and  from  that  spot  wrote  to  me,  inviting 
me  to  join  him.  Incensed  as  I  was  with  my  old 
school  friend  I  accepted  the  invitation  promptly 
— for  the  sake  of  his  netim,  not  for  the  pleasure 
of  his  society.  At  great  inconvenience  I  went 
to  Castellare  and  found  tlicni  glad  to  see  me.  I 
had  for  your  sake,  Olive,  always  shown  the  poor 
girl  much  kindness,  and  she  had  conceived  for 
me  just  that  attachment  which  a  young  creature 
in  her  rank  of  life  might  be  expected  to  form  for 
a  considerate  patron.  W-Watchit  t-told  me 
that  she  had  greatly  dreaded  my  arrival  at  Cas- 
tellare, fearing  that  I  should  scold  her  for  her 
misl)ehavior.  When,  then,  instead  of  u] (braid- 
ing her,  I  greeted  her  witli  my  old  manner  of 
consideration,  she  was  very  grateful.  At  Cas- 
tellare, on  my  first  visit,  I  found — what  I  had  | 
feared  was  the  ease — that  she  and  Watchit  were' 
not  married.  Our  old  friendsliip  entitled  me  to 
speak  to  him  freely  on  this  subject;  and  I  told 
liim  that  it  was  his  duty  to  make  the  girl  his 
wife  forthwith.  I  reminded  him  that  she  was  a 
girl  of  gentle  descent,  the  daughter  of  an  officer 
of  the  British  army,  and,  until  he  had  met  lier 
in  my  mother's  drawing-room,  a  young  lady  of  | 
spotless  reputation.  I  even  ventured  to  say  that 
the  interest  which  my  future  wife  liad  conde- 
Bcended  to  take  in  her  was  one  consideratiini 
that  ought  to  ]iave,exem])ted  her  from  the  ad- 
vances of  his  libertinism.     These  representations  , 


were  taken  in  good  part  by  my  old  friend.  Il-he 
a-acknowledged  their  force,  and  said  that  he  had  1 
always  intended  to  marry  the  girl.  He  had  even 
proposed  to  her  before  leaving  England  that  they 
should  be  married  in  tlie  church  of  St.  Thomas's, 
Kcnnington  ;  but  he  had  relincpiished  that  plan, 
from  a  fear  that  the  ceremony  solemnized  in  any 
church,  however  obscure,  might  become  known 
to  certain  atHuent  relations  from  M'hom  he  had 
expectations.  I  urged  upon  him  to  be  married 
there  in  Monaco,  by  a  ]iriest  of  the  Romish 
Church,  rather  than  to  continue  his  existing  in- 
tercourse. The  poor  girl  knew  how  I  interested 
myself  in  her  behalf,  and  the  knowledge  of 
course  strengthened  her  grateful  feeling  toward 
me. 

"M-my  f-f- first  visit  at  Castellare,  how- 
ever, terminated  without  the  ceremony  having 
been  performed.  Still  I  did  not  despair  to  cany 
my  point.  That  Watchit  might  remain  longer 
within  the  range  of  my  influence,  I  exerted  my- 
self with  my  father  and  his  brother  Directors  of 
the  East  India  Company  to  procure  him  an  ex- 
tension of  his  furlough  ;  and  when  he  had  been 
in  Italy  eight  or  nine  months  I  saw  him  again. 
He  was  then  ex]3ecting  the  birth  of  a  child — a 
fact  which  gave  additional  force  to  my  renewed 
exhortations  to  him  to  marry.  She,  poor  girl, 
was  much  altered.  Cut  off  from  all  communica- 
tion with  her  sister,  suffering  under  the  burden 
of  guilt  which  weighed  on  her  conscience,  she 
had  become  subject  to  fits  of  obstinate  depres- 
sion. Unhappy  creature — she  had  enough  to 
make  her  sad.  And  possil)ly,  among  graver  causes 
for  wretchedness,  the  discovery  that  Watchit  was 
a  comjjaratively  poor  man  (instead  of  the  very 
rich  one  she  had  supposed)  was  not  without  a  mel- 
ancholy eftect.  My  presence,  however,  bright- 
ened her  up.  I  brought  her  out  with  me  as  a 
jjrescnt  a  large  box  of  English  books ;  and  the 
delight  with  which  she  recei^'cd  this  gift  was 
literall}'  extravagant.  I  again  urged  on  Watch- 
it ll:e  propriety  of  marriage  ;  and  as  another  in- 
ducement for  him  to  take  the  step,  I  made  him 
a  jiiomise  that  I  would  secure  for  him  a  certain 
command  in  India  (which  would,  in  all  proba- 
bility, be  vacant  in  the  course  of  another  year) 
if  ho  would  accede  to  my  request.  I  had,  how- 
ever, again  to  leave  without  the  fulfillment  of 
my  wishes. 

"  S-six  m-months  passed,  and  Watchit  was 
in  cruel  trouble-  He  was  a  father  ;  but  the  mo- 
ther of  his  child,  after  Mceks  of  extreme  suffering 
and  )(eril,  had  manifested  unmistakable  symp- 
toms of  a  disordered  intellect.  Besides  the  ob- 
stinate mental  dejection  with  which  j'oung  mo- 
ther,, are  occasionally  afflicted,  she  M'as  the  vic- 
tim of  a  most  unaccountable — and  most  painful 
— hallucination.  '  She  was  firmly  convinced  that 
I  was  the  father  of  her  child,  that  I  was  also  her 
husband,  and  that  Major  Watchit  had  himself 
been  the  witness  of  our  marriage.  On  receiving 
tliis  intelligence  I  immediately  hastened  out  to 
Jlonaeo,  once  more  to  give  consolation  and  ad- 
vice. Poor  Watchit — a  singularly  reserved  and 
self-contained  man,  but  withal  one  of  tender 
sensibilities — was  utterly  unmanned.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  his  mind  would  follow  that  of  the 
])()or  girl's.  No  marriage  had  taken  place,  and 
none  could  take  jilace  between  my  friend  and  a 
])()(ir  demented  creature  who  was  firmly  con- 
vinced slie  had  a  husband  living. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


96 


"I-I  c-could  do  little  for  her.  It  was  to 
my  wretched  friend  that  my  best  and  first 
thoughts  were  given.  It  w;is  necessary  for  me 
to  do  something  to  rouse  him  from  the  stupor  of 
despondence  into  wliich  lie  liad  fallen.  For- 
tunatel}'  the  command  in  India  (already  spoken 
of)  fell  vacant,  and  I  j)rocured'  it  for  him. 
Spirited  persuasion  induced  him  to  accept  his 
promotion ;  and  I  sent  him  oft"  to  the  East — 
where  he  has  distinguished  himself  so  splendid- 
ly. But  ere  he  left,  I  promised  to  take  a  pa- 
ternal care  of  the  poor  girl  and  her  child.  In 
discharge  of  this  undertaking  I  moved  her  to 
Nice,  and  placed  her  under  the  surveillance  of  a 
humane  and  most  enlightened  physician,  Dr. 
Brunod.  The  doctor  was  not  a  rich  man,  so  I 
went  to  the  expense  of  fitting  him  up  a  house  in 
the  environs  of  Nice.  The  journey  I  have  just 
returned  from  was  taken  in  order  that  I  might 
see  her,  and  also  place  her  child  in  proper  hands, 
with  a  view  to  its  education.  It  of  course  would 
not  be  fit  that  slie,  suft'cring  under  such  a  delu- 
sion, should  have  the  custody  of  her  child,  now 
that  its  intelligence  is  becoming  active.  Well, 
Olive,  on  my  arrival  at  Nice,  what  was  my  sur- 
prise to  find  that  the  girl  had  made  her  escape 
from  Dr.  Brunod's  gentle  hands !  I  forthwith 
instituted  search  and  pursuit  after  her ;  but  not 
a  trace  of  her  movements  had  I  discovered  when 
I  entered  this  room  an  hour  since." 

Such  was  the  intelligible  but  heart-stirring 
narrative  of  my  husband.  Such  was  the  ex-, 
planation  of  my  terrible  mystery. 

"Oh,  Arthur,"  I  said  to  my  husband,  "how 
deeply  I  regret  having  used  the  language  of  bit 
teraess  and  scorn  to  her ! " 

With  these  words  I  closed  my  minute  ac- 
count to  him  of  all  that  had  transpired,  with- 
in the  circle  of  my  experiences,  during  his  ab- 
sence. 

"D-don't  w-worry  your  head  about  that," 
he  answered,  reassuring  me  with  an  air  of  great 
good-humor.  "A-a  b-better  remedy,  I  dare 
say,  could  not  have  been  devised  for  her.  A 
knowledge  of  how  those  who  do  not  possess 
the  secret  of  her  delusion  must  regard  her  will 
doubtless  act  as  a  wliolesome  medicine." 

What  a  change  had  my  husband's  words  ef- 
fected !  When  he  rose  and  went  to  dress  for 
dinner  he  left  me  on  the  sofa  the  happiest  and 
proudest  wife  in  all  London.  I  never  before 
had  felt  so  much  like  reaUy  loving  him. 

The  bloom  soon  returned  to  my  cheek,  and 
the  freshness  to  my  spirits,  and  ere  three  days 
had  passed  over  us  I  was  able  almost  to  laugh 
at  my  alarms  of  the  previous  three  weeks. 

On  the  third  day  after  my  husband's  return, 
our  old  and  very  intimate  friend.  Sir  Charles 
Norton,  the  well-known  Secretary  of  State,  dined 
with  me  and  Mr.  Petersham — no  other  visitor 
being  present.  Sir  Charles  was  on  such  very 
confidential  terms  with  us,  that  my  husband  in 
a  very  humorous  manner  told  him  the  annoy- 
ance to  which  I  had  been  placed — by  the  irrup- 
tion of  a  mad  woman,  declaring  that  she  was 
really  Mrs.  Petersham.  Sir  Charles  was  very 
much  tickled  with  the  narrative,  and  also  with 
the  notion  of  his  friend's  having  two  wives. 

"Well,"  I  said,  concluding  my  part  of  the 
conversation  on  tlie  subject,  "I  trust  the  poor 
creature  won't  trouble  me  again." 

"No  fear  of  tliat,  my  dear.     She  won't  re- 


peat her  visit,"  said  my  husband;  and  as  he 
said  this,  I  noticed  that  ho  and  Sir  Charles  ex- 
changed glances. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


MY     SIN. 


She  was  only  a  mad  girl,  and  the  annoyance 
she  caused  me  was  quickly  f(jrgottcn ;  but  the 
day  was  coming  on  black,  fast  wings  when  her 
words,  so  earnestly  si)oken,  and  at  the  time  of 
their  utterance  so  little  heeded  by  me,  were  to 
rc-forui  themselves,  and  strike  to  my  heart.  ' '  Oh, 
poor  lady,''  the  mad  girl  had  said,  "from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  I  pity  you !  Last  time  I  was 
here  I  asked  you  to  pity  me.  It  is  now  my  turn 
to  pity.  I  have  been  a  wicked,  vain,  heartless 
I  girl ;  but  indeed  you  wrong  me,  and  in  His  own 
time  God  will  prove  me  innocent  of  what  you  lay 
to  my  charge." 

Strange  words  these  for  a  mad  girl !  But  the 
insane  know  well  how  to  cut  a  listener  with  pa- 
thetic speeches. 

Why  did  I  not  go  forth  and  seek  her?  drop 
comfort  into  her  wretched  heart?  and  find  her 
the  protection  of  such  a  lionie  as  a  fraction  of 
my  wealth  could  procure  ?  I  knew  her  history 
well;  that  she  had  neither  father  nor  mother; 
that  she  had  no  money  to  secure  her  the  greedy 
care  of  expectant  relatives ;  that  she  was  sepa- 
rated from  the  sister  who  might  have  shielded 
her ;  that  she  had  been  betrayed  by  a  brave  sol- 
dier, who  for  all  his  gallantry  was  a  selfish  lib- 
ertine; that  for  sins,  into  which  she  had  been 
betrayed  hy  childish  vanity  and  a  seducer's  guile, 
she  had  paid  the  penalty  of  a  shattei'ed  intellect; 
that,  though  her  mind  was  broken,  her  beauty 
still  remained  to  her  for  the  wicked  to  mark  as 
prey.  I  knew  all  this :  and  I  remained  quiet 
and  cheerful,  and  nursing  an  anticipation  of  com- 
ing gladness^ — living  in  my  proud  mansion,  re- 
freshing my  eyes  with  the  works  of  painters  and 
sculptors,  courted  by  crowds  of  friends,  and  play- 
ing fastidiously  with  the  labor,  and  thought,  and 
genius  of  tiiose  who  fed  my  tastes  and  gratified 
my  caprices. 

And  ijray,  what  was  the  mad  girl  to  me  that 
I  should  deviate  from  my  ])leasant  paths  to  help 
her?  She  had  been  false  to  her  first  love  ;  false 
to  her  sister  ;  false  to  her  sex.  She  had  approach- 
ed me,  l)ut  uninvited ;  and  she  had  come  to  mo 
only  to  besmear  my  delicacy  with  the  defilements 
of  her  wicked  experiences  and  crazy  brain.  Sure- 
ly the  lunatic  as\lums  could  take  care  of  their 
own  without  my  interference !  Why  should  I 
vex  myself  about  such  a  creature?  Why  should 
I  wa.ste  a  thought  upon  her  ?    . 

And  yet  I  had  j^ven  her  many  thoughts  when 
I  had  never  seen  her;  when  her  existence,  known 
of  only  by  the  ear,  was  a  fiinciful  ornament  in 
my  drawing-room  visions  of  life's  romance. 

At  lengtli  I  had  met  her  in  the  stern  life  of 
fact,  and  I  put  my  hands  down  before  me,  and 
drew  my  skirts  from  hers,  and  ])assed  on.  I  ab- 
stained from  mentioning  her  name  to  my  hus- 
band, for  it  was  an  unpleasant  subject.  And  soon 
I  never  thought  of  her,  because  it  was  an  un- 
pleasant suhject. 

This  was  my  sin ! 

Do  any  of  my  sisters  think  "sin"  a  hard  name 


96 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


for  siuli  neglect  of  tlie  duties  of  Christian  char- 
ity—a iu'f,'left  justilieil,  as  the  phrase  goes,  by 
social  t'xii;eiK-ie.s  ? 

I  will  judge  myself,  so  tliat  1  may  nut  be 
judged. 

The  mad  girl  came  to  me,  hungry  for  wo- 
man's counsel,  and  1  gave  her  the  censure  of  an 
angry  tongue ;  thirsting  for  pity,  and  I  gave  her 
scorn ;  a  stranger  to  all  human  love,  and  I  gave 
her  hate;  naked  of  her  honor,  and  I  did  my  ut- 
most to  tear  from  her  any  thin  veil  of  self-respect 


still  left  to  her ;  sick  to  the  cove  of  her  heart,  and 
imprisoned  in  remorse — and  J fonjot  her. 

A  slight  sin !  Why,  it  was  a  sin  in  which  sin 
folded  itself  within  sin,  like  the  leaves  of  an  un- 
burst rose-bud.  It  was  made  up  of  sins  innu- 
merable. I  did  not  see  them  then — the  bud 
had  not  burst;  but  they  were  there,  incased  in 
a  smooth,  neat  covering.  And  I  know  a  book 
which  says  that  they  who  have  committed  such 
sins,  and  die  unrepenting,  shall  go  away  into  pun- 
ishment. 


BOOK  V. 


SUBMISSION :— BEING  THE   THIRD    OF   MISS   TABITHA   TREE'S 

NOTE-BOOK. 


CHAPTER  I. 

JIARCHIONESS    STREET. 

It  is  a  sunmier  evening  at  the  end  of  July, 
and  I  am  sitting  at  one  of  the  many  large  win- 
dows on  the  first  floor  of  the  Hospital  for  Sick 
Children  in  Marchioness  Street,  Bloomsbury, 
W.C.  (as  it  is  described  in  the  Post-Office  Direct- 
ory for  1861),  and  I  am  looking  into  the  dusky 
street. 

In  the  times  of  Queen  Anne,  and  George  I., 
and  George  II.,  Marchioness  Street  was  in  great 
favor  with  the  aristocracy,  whose  capacious  and 
conspicuously  decorated  coaches,  drawn  by  four 
or  six  horses,  and  heavily  weighted  with  tawdry 
menials,  were  constantly  rumbling  over  its  tin- 
even  ground.  It  is  a  street  of  deserted  man- 
sions, of  marble  halls  that  have  no  gay  visitors, 
of  wide  staircases  no  longer  climbed  by  haughty 
nobles  and  scheming  ministers  of  state,  of  lofty 
dining-rooms  that  have  seen  no  banquet  for 
many  a  day,  of  magnificent  drawing  -  rooms 
whose  ceilings,  rich  in  costly  moulding  and  an- 
tique ornament,  long  since  looked  down  on 
proud  jjatrician  girls  as  they  danced  chacones, 
and  cybells,  and  sarabands,  and  minuets,  and 
contre-dances,  and  flirted  their  fans,  to  the  ad- 
miration of  patch-bearing  gallants  and  high-born 
mohocks — wasting  an  hour  in  good,  ere_  they 
enjoyed  themselves  in  bad,  society,  and  rushed 
wildly  rioting  through  the  town.  The  flash  of 
lights  and  the  brightness  of  burnished  mirrors, 
the  waving  of  white  i)lumes  and  the  rustling  of 
choicest  silks,  the  dazzle  of  diamonds  and  the 
joyous  sweep  or  merry  jig  of  dance-music,  brill- 
iant uniforms  and  ringing  laughter — they've  all 
left  Marchioness  Street  for  the  far  West!  On 
the  wettest  and  most  miserable  of  winter  nights, 
when  no  one  but  the  night  policeman  is  beating 
the  pavements.  Marchioness  Street,  however,  is 
brighter  now  than  it  was  in  its  days  of  splendor, 
after  the  aristocracy  had  put  out  their  lights, 
and  shut  their  street  doors,  and  gone  to  rest. 
On  either  side  of  the  street  a  row  of  gas-lamps 
runs  from  one  end  to  the  other,  and  as  the  way 
is  straight  as  an  arrow,  all  the  lamps  shed  light 
on  the  belated  wanderer's  course.  What  a  con- 
trast to  old  times!  Projecting  from  the  rusty 
railings,  or  attached  to  iron-work,  curving  down 
from  the  door-posts,  the  awkward  extinguishers 


yet  remain,  in  which  the  link-boys,  who  follow- 
ed the  then  great  folks'  equipages,  were  accus- 
tomed to  put  out  their  torches. 

Dingy  and  deserted  as  it  is,  garnished  with 
cobwebs  instead  of  muslin  blinds  as  it  is,  and 
covered  as  to  its  wood-work  with  smuts  of  ages 
instead  of  paint  as  it  is.  Marchioness  Street  is 
still  jncturesque — indeed  very  much  so  by  lamp- 
light, when  the  once-white  facings  to  the  red- 
brick mansions  look  white  as  ever,  and  the  cob- 
webs and  smuts  are  less  depressing  than  they  are 
by  daylight.  The  door-ways  are  many  of  them 
very  imposing,  their  posts  being  elaborately 
carved,  and  at  least  half  a  dozen  of  them  hav- 
ing porches,  the  roofs  of  which  are  sup])ortcd 
on  curved  pillars,  and  are  decorated  with  an 
excess  of  sculptured  wood  or  stone — fat  cherubs, 
smiling  Cupids,  exuberant  clusters  of  grapes, 
lyres,  flutes,  music-books,  and  such  other  devices 
as  great  people  used,  once  on  a  time,  to  pile  upon 
their  door-ways. 

When  the  nobility  gave  np  IMarchioness  Street 
it  fared  worse,  and  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
lawyers.  Indeed,  it  stands  in  a  district  even  yet 
called  by  old-fashioned  people  "the  law  neigh- 
borhood," in  which  the  last  of  judges  (to  reside 
there)  only  the  other  day  sold  his  mansion.  It 
was  a  convenient  locality  for  rich  barristers  and 
solicitors,  for  Gray's  Inn  is  hard  by,  and  Chan-.- 
eery  Lane  is  near  to  Gray's  Inn,  and  Lincoln's 
Imi  and  the  Temples  are  near  Chancery  Lane. 
The  lawyers  lived  in  Marchioness  Street,  drink- 
ing their  ])ort  and  playing  whist,  till  the  houses 
got  so  i)crfectly  out  of  repair  that  they  needed 
i-e-roofing,  and,  in  some  cases,  rebuilding ;  and 
then  the  gentlemen  of  the  long  robe  left,  as  Ju- 
lian Gower  protests,  without  eflecting  the  requi- 
site restorations,  or  even  paying  their  taxes : 
and  Marchioness  Street,  all  cracked,  and  dilapi- 
dated, and  draughty,  and  unpainted,  fell  down 
another  grade  in  social  dignity. 

It  was  seized  on  by  Charitable  Objects. 

It  is  the  iicculiar  home  of  Charitable  Objects 
at  the  present  moment. 

The  IIos]>ital  for  Sick  Children  occupies  two 
of  the  largest  mansions,  containing  some  seventy 
beds,  each  bed  containing  a  child  suffering  much, 
though  it  can  haA'C  only  sinned  a  little.  Next 
door,  standing  on  ground  once  occupied  by  a 
mighty  earl's  house,  stands  another  asylum  for 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


97 


the  afflicted  of  our  species.  Then  tli  v'  me 
"homes,"  and  "retreats,"  and  " rct'iij^cs"'  tor  all 
sorts  of  Cliaritable  Objects. 

It  is  Sunday  evening,  and  the  humbler  folk 
going  to  and  fro  for  devotion  or  pleasuring  make 
tha  j)avements  lively.  I  count  at  least  twelve 
persons  in  the  street  at  one  time.  Usually  there 
is  almost  no  trafhc  in  Marchioness  Street;  the 
carriages  of  a  dozen  physicians  and  those  of  the 
lady  jjatronesses  of  the  benevolent  institutions 
being  the  only  vehicle*  accustomed  to  the  ways 
of  good  society  that  enter  it.  For  the  most  part 
the  friends  of  the  Charitable  Objects  come  to  see 
them  on  foot.  The  square  at  the  end  of  JMar- 
chioness  Street  (also  full  of  deserted  mansions, 
which,  instead  of  being  inhabited  by  Charitable 
Olijccts,  has  a  population  of  lodgers  and  lodging- 
jiouse  keepers  of  the  mouldiest  description)  is  a 
cnl-de-sac,  and  when  a  young  cabman,  ignorant 
of  ins  profession,  drives  down  the  street,  hoping 
to  make  a  short  cut,  he  has  to  go  back  without 
eifecting  his  object.  It  is  therefore  very  quiet 
in  Marchioness  Street. 

Now  that  I  am  tired  of  the  view  out  of  the 
front  windows  of  the  Hospital  for  Sick  Children 
I  go  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  building,  and 
survey  the  fine  gardens  at  the  backs  of  the  de- 
serted mansions — gardens  full  of  magnificent 
trees,  limes,  and  elms — the  high  red-brick  walls 
covered  with  vines  and  fig-trees,  all  untrained 
and  fruitless,  but  still  veiy  luxuriant,  and  fresh 
and  green  to  look  upon. 

The  nobility  and  the  rich  lawyers  little  thought 
how  their  spacious  pleasure-grounds  would  be 
enjoyed  by  the  Charitable  Objects. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HOW   I    CAME    TO   BE    THERE. 

The  evening  just  recalled  is  of  the  past — di- 
vided from  me  by  many  years  and  many  changes. 

I  had  left  Laughton  eight  years,  and  was  thir- 
ty-four years  of  age.  How  had  life  gone  with 
me  since  then  ?  Eight  years  is  a  long  time. 
When  one  reads  carelessly  in  the  paper  the 
words  of  a  judge,  "  Prisoner,  your  sentence  is 
that  you  undergo  penal  servitude  for  seven 
years,"  one  finds  it  difficult  to  realize  all  the 
significance  of  the  curt  decision — to  imagine 
what  a  diflerent  aspect  life  will  bear  to  the  crim- 
inal at  the  expiration  of  his  punishment — how 
he  will  look  beyond  himself  for  friends  whom 
death  has  removed,  or  prosperity  has  exalted, 
and  look  within  himself  for  powers  once  delicate 
and  highly  trained,  but  now  weakened  or  de- 
stroyed by  long  endurance  and  ignominious  toil. 
Why,  one  year  is  a  very  long  time — long  enough 
to  cover  happy  homes  with  desolation,  and  make 
men  assume  forgetfulness  of  faces  they  once  kiss- 
ed !  Even  a  night  has  made  men  old ;  and  I 
know  where  an  idle  s])cecii,  to  utter  which  con- 
sumed only  ^fraction  of  a  iiiiuute,  broke  to  pieces 
the  friendship  of  a  life. 

Eight  years !  The  hair  on  my  head  was  turn- 
ing gray,  and  I  often  caught  myself  vainly  en- 
deavoring to  recall  names  once  familiar  to  me 
as  household  words. 

Since  leaving  Laughton  by  the  night-mail  I 
had  never  i-evisited  it.  Twice  a  year  I  had  writ- 
tea  to  dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gurlev,  telling  them  I 
G 


was  well,  as  happy  as  I  had  a  right  to  be,  and 
possessed  of  as  nuicli  prosperity  as  I  had  any  de- 
sire; for.  liiit  I  never  let  them  know  where  I 
lived.  They  wrote  to  me  from  time  to  time  in 
answer  to  my  conmiunications,  but  their  epistles 
were  directed  to  an  address  where  they  were  kept 
for  me  till  I  called  for  them.  In  the  course  of 
eight  j'cars  1  changed  my  secret  address  twice. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gurley's  letters  were  a  great  com- 
fort to  me,  giving  me  such  news  from  "the  corn 
country"  as  they  knew  would  be  pleasant  to  me, 
although  I  fled  from  it  in  slianie.  Eight  years 
made  no  alteration  in  those  dear  friends ;  they 
wrote  to  me  as  freely  and  confidingly  and  ten- 
derly as  ever.  Three  times  Mr.  Gurley  wrote 
to  me  of  Julian  Gower.  Julian  had  returned 
from  SoLith  America,  not  poor,  as  we  had  an-  / 
tiei])ated,  bi,;t  with  modest  alHuence.  The  mines 
had  turned  out  better  than  he  had  expected. 
On  his  arrival  in  England  he  went  down  to 
Laughton,  and  had  an  interview  with  Mr.  Gur- 
ley, expressing  a  great  desire  to  discover  me 
and  make  provision  for  my  comfort.  Loyal  to 
the  confidence  placed  in  him,  Mr.  Gurley  con- 
cealed from  him  the  fact  of  his  correspondence 
with  me,  but  wrote  to  me  urging  me  to  recon- 
sider my  decision  never  again  to  see  the  play- 
mate of  my  childhood.  To  this  counsel  I  re- 
sponded with  a  firm  reiteration  of  my  resolve. 
Twice  since  then  had  Mr.  Gurley  mentioned 
Julian's  affairs — once  to  tell  me  that  he  had 
been  appointed  engineer  to  a  prosperous  mining 
speculation  in  the  North  of  England,  and  again 
to  inform-  me  that  his  old  friend  Mr.  Peter 
M  'Cabe  had  died  in  Newcastle,  and  left  him  a 
legacy  of  £10,000.  These  were  the  only  occa-  | 
sions  of  Mr.  Gurley's  saying  any  thing  about 
Julian  ;  but  I  had  further  information  as  to  his 
proceedings.  A  crisis  had  arisen  for  enterpris- 
ing mechanics  and  self-taught  engineers  to  make 
large  fortunes.  Railways  were  in  course  of  con- 
struction in  various  parts  of  the  kingdom;  and 
Julian,  whose  capacity  was  known  to  the  Ste-  / 
l^hensons,  was  employed  to  lay  down  more  than 
one  important  line.  He  had  therefore  in  a  cer- 
tain way  become  a  public  man,  and  every  now 
and  then  I  saw  his  name  in  the  columns  of  the 
daily  jjapers.  Oh,  poor,  poor  Etty,  if  she  had 
but  known  the  coming  fortime  of  the  man  who 
loved  her  so  well!  But  though  that  regretful 
reflection  would  persist  in  rising,  it  seemed  to 
me  unreasonable,  and  selfish,  and  wicked.  Since 
she  had  proved  herself  unworthy  of  him,  ought 
I  not  rather  to  rejoice  that  he  was  not  closely 
united  to  her? 

I  had  not  heard  of  Etty.  When  I  left  Laugh- 
ton I  had  a  confidence  that  she  would  write  to  | 
me  as  she  promised,  and  1  felt  it  more  than  prob-  ' 
able  that  ere  a  year  or  so  should  elapse  I  should 
hear  from  her.  But  she  never  sent  me  either 
letter  or  message.  For  two  years  I  made  sure 
that  a  letter  forwarded  to  me  from  Laughton 
would  be  waiting  for  me  at  my  secret  address 
the  next  time  I  presented  myself  at  it,  and  asked 
"Have  j-ou  any  letter  for  me?"  Nearly  every 
month  (for  the  first  two  years  of  my  London  life 
I  could  not  go  oftener)  I  had  for  eight  years  put 
this  question  to  the  agents  who  received  my  let- 
ters. Time  after  time  my  letter  receivers  (smil- 
ing sadly  and  grieving  to  wound  me)  had  to  an- 
swer, "No,  ma]ttm,  no  letter  for  you;"  and  on 
the  occasions  ^raen  they  did  hand  me  a  letter 


98 


OLIVP:  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


from  ;\rr  iiiul  >ris.  Giivl^'y  with  ii  choeriiig 
'*  Ves,  iii;r:uii,  there  is  :i  h'lter  for  you  tliis  time  !" 
a  {ihiiK'u  ;it  my  eyes  tokl  ilicm  thiit  it  was  not 
the  letter  of  all  letters  which  I  required.  Of 
course,  I  put  the  worst  construction  on  Etty's 
silence. 

But  how  had  I  managed  to  live  in  London  for 
eight  years?  Without  much  difficulty.  Lon- 
don has  its  terrors;  hut  as  a  general  rule  it  has 
an  ahundance  of  work  for  willing  laborers. 

For  the  first  two  years  after  leaving  Laughton 
I  was  nursery-governess  to  IMrs.  Monk,  of  Clap- 
ton. 1  often  read  in  volumes  of  fiction  that  the 
governess  is  usually  worse  treated  and  worse 
paid  than  any  other  worker.  I  trust  this  is  not 
the  case  ;  but  if  it  be  a  fact,  I  have  another  rea- 
son for  gratitude  in  having  been  led  to  Mrs. 
Monk"s  door.  She  was  a  devout  and  excellent 
lady — a  kind  mistress  to  me  when  I  was  her 
servant — and  in  after-years  one  uf  my  very  best 
friends. 

An  advertisement  in  a  newspaper  was  the 
cause  of  my  seeking  admission  to  Mrs.  Monk's 
service ;  and  at  the  interview,  when  she  engaged 
me,  she  told  me  the  nature  of  my  duties,  and 
the  terms  she  offered.  The  latter  were  liberal, 
for  Mr.  Monk  was  a  rich  man — rich  even  among 
London's  rich  merchants.  It  was  when  Mrs. 
Monk  asked  for  my  testimonials  to  character 
that  the  difficulty  of  our  interview  became  ap- 
parent. 

"I  have  no  character,  madam,"  I  answered. 
''I  have  never  before  held  a  paid  situation  in 
any  family.  Since  it  was  necessary  for  me  to 
earn  my  living  I  have  kept  a  school  in  the  coun- 
try until  now." 

"Can  you,  then,"  inquired  the  lady,  "give 
me  a  reference  to  the  parents  of  any  of  your  old 
pupils?" 

"No,  I  can  not," I  answered,  with  an  eff"ort. 

"  And  why  not?" 

"Ten  days  since,  Mrs.  IMonk,  I  had  dozens 
of  friends  I  could  have  referred  you  to,  but  I 
have  fled  from  the  place  in  ^vhieh  my  name  was 
respected — and  in  whieh,  I  give  you  my  word, 
my  character  is  still  stainless  in  the  estimation 
of  those  who  know  me.  I  have  come  to  London 
to  earn  my  living  as  a  good  woman  may  earn  it. 
I  wish  to  enter  your  service,  but  I  can  not,  in 
order  that  1  may  do  so,  speak  of  the  trouble  from 
which  1  have  fled ;  I  can  not  even  give  you  the 
means  of  learning  for  yourself  the  sorrow  of  my 
life.  This  I  can  assure  you — there  is  nothing  in 
my  wretched  history  which,  if  you  knew  it,  would 
decide  you  not  to  engage  me  as  the  instructor 
and  attendant  of  your  little  children." 

"That  will  do,  Miss  Tree,"  answered  the  lady. 
"  You  must  come  and  live  with  me.  Your  char- 
acter is  written  in  your  eyes,  and  I  have  read  it 
by  a  heart  that  has  known  something  of  sorrow." 

The  good  woman  who  thus  spoke  to  me  years 
since  is  in  her  grave  now.  Would  that  my 
gratitude  could  reach  her  in  the  place  where  her 
soul  is  at  rest  with  God  !  . 

1  remained  for  two  years  the  chief  su])erintend- 
ctu  of  Mrs.  Monk's  nurscuy,  exercising  am-oeil- 
I'liirc  over  the  nurse-maids,  and  instructing  the 
younger  children.  ])uring  the  last  six  months 
of  that  period  one  of  Mrs.  Monk's  children,  a 
lovely  boy  of  six  summers,  died  after  a  jiainftil 
illness,  in  which  I  nursed  hiiu.%  I  only  rendered 
the  poor  little  fellow  the  services  I  was  bound  to 


]iay  liim,  but  the  mother's  heart,  tliat  "had 
known  something  of  sorrow,"  led  ]\Irs.  Monlv  to 
jiut  another  estimate  on  my  services,  and  when 
we  returned  from  the  side  of  the  grave  in  which 
we  had  placed  him  we  were  no  longer  mere 
mistress  and  dependent,  hutj'riends. 

Our  common  grief  roused  us  from  the  imcon- 
scious  selfishness  in  which  the  well-intentioned 
and  amiable  pass  too  much  of  their  lives,  and 
we  began  to  sympathize,  in  a  way  we  had  never 
before  done,  with  those  iliousands  of  poor  mo- 
thers whose  children,  in  the  vast  "city  of  the 
world,"  die,  not  as  our  darling  had  perished,  sus- 
tained to  the  last  with  all  the  care  of  science,  and 
means  of  wealth,  as  well  a's  with  afiectionate  so- 
licitude— but  die  when  timely  nourishment  and 
medical  aid  would  have  preserved  them  in  health 
and  beaitty. 

In  some  measure  this  sj-mpathj'  roused  in  Mrs. 
Monk's  breast  was  the  seed  from  which  Tlie  Hos- 
pital for  Sick  Children  sprung.  Any  how,  she 
was  one  of  a  few  other  benevolent  persons  who 
established  the  institution.  It  had  an  humble  be- 
ginning. For  four  j-ears  it  could  scarcely  hold 
its  position  in  the  smaller  of  the  two  mansions 
which  it  at  present  occupies ;  for  benevolent  ttn- 
dertakings,  not  less  than  commercial  enterprises, 
when  they  take  shape  as  householders  have  to 
])ay  rent  and  taxes,  and  at  first  subscribers  were 
slow  to  give  their  support  to  the  new  charity. 
It  was  a  work  of  great  labor  to  give  the  mere 
existence  of  the  hosi)ital  publicity  beyond  a  very 
confined  circle.  Even  at  this  date  there  are 
hundreds — ay,  thousands  of  rich  mothers — with- 
in an  hour's  drive  of  Marchioness  Street,  who 
have  never  heard  of  The  Hospital  for  Sick  Chil- 
dren. If  any  such  rich  mothers  amuse  an  idle 
hour  with  these  pages,  I  here  beg  them,  when 
they  are  distributing  a  small  fraction  of  their  in- 
comes in  charity  at  the  close  of  the  year,  not  to 
forget  "the  poor  child's  home  in  illness."  Have 
they  children,  struck  with  maladies  the  course 
of  which  they  with  a  fearful  effort  of  resignation 
leave  God  to  determine?  Let  them,  even  as 
they  imj>lore  mercy,  show  mercy  to  the  wives  of 
])Oor  craftsmen  whose  babes  are  similarly  afflict- 
ed !  Have  they  infitnts  fresh  and  blooming ; 
with  round  limbs  well-formed,  and  white,  and 
tender;  with  faces  full  of  coy,  roguish  smiles; 
and  with  ]iink  lips  roaring  out  an  unintelligible 
jargon  of  delight?  For  such  blessings  let  their 
ileeds  give  thanks. 

But  still  the  question  remains  to  be  answered 
— How  came  I  on  that  summer  evening  to  be 
sitting  at  a  window  overlooking  Marchioness 
Street  ? 

It  ha])pcned  thus. 

On  the  establishment  of  The  Hospital  for  Sick 
Children  I  solicited  Mrs.  Monk  to  do  her  ntnmst 
to  i)rocure  for  me  the  post  of  matron.  The  ob- 
jections off'ered  by  her  to  my  undertaking  the 
arduous  and  irksome  duties  of  the  situation  I 
overruled.  I  managed  to  convince  her  that  no 
cm]iloyment  held  out  to  me  more  attractions. 
I  should  be  effecting  good,  should  be  doing 
work  that  I  was  ]ieculiarly  qualified  to  do  well, 
should  have  trust  i)laced  in  me  and  the  control 
over  others,  should,  moreover,  be  able  to  maintain 
my  intercourse  with  her.  I  rejircscntcd  that,  at 
the  first  establishment  of  a  hos])ital,  it  was  es- 
pecially necessary  to  keep  down  every  expense 
(connected  with  the  mere  machinery  of  the  af- 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


99 


fair)  at  a  minimum ;  and  I  felt  confident  tlie 
originators  could  not  ]>rocure  so  good  a  cliicf- 
HursG  as  I  for  the  wages  I  was  ready  to  accept. 

The  result  was,  that  in  due  course  the  Com- 
mittee appointed  me  nuvtron  of  the  hospital , 
and  one  dull  November  afternoon  IVIrs.  Monk 
drove  me  up  from  Clapton  into  town  and  left 
me  in  the  desolate  mansion  of  Marchioness 
Street,  which  continued  to  be  my  home  for  sev- 
eral years  afterward. 

At  first,  as  I  have  already  intimated,  the  hos- 
pital had  a  hard  struggle  for  life.  Mrs.  ]Monk 
and  her  immediate  coadjutors  wei'e  compara- 
tively rich,  but  they  could  not  by  themselves 
maintain  the  institution  eflicicntly.  At  the  end 
of  our  fourth  year  atiairs  looked  so  badly  that 
the  Committee  were  very  near  relin<pushing 
their  efforts,  when  IMiss  Grace  Temjile  —  a 
.  wealthy  and  charitable  lady,  personally  unknown 
to  any  one  immediately  connected  with,  or  in- 
terested in  the  charity — made  a  donation  to  the 
hospital  of  £1000,  on  condition  that  the  adjoin- 
ing mansion  (jiist  then  vacant)  was  forthwith 
hired  on  a  long  lease,  and  used  for  the  enlarge- 
ment of  the  infantile  Infirmary.  It  is  needless 
to  say  that  the  condition  was  no  barrier  to  the 
acceptance  of  the  donation,  especially  as  IMiss 
Grace  Temple  through  h9r  solicitor  promised  to 
give  such  further  aid  to  the  charity  as  should  se- 
cure it  from  insolvency. 

The  physicians,  and  surgeons,  and  members 
of  the  Committee  were  all  alike  in  the  dark  as 
to  who  this  Miss  Grace  Temple  could  be.  Tiie 
Committee  had  good  reason  to  believe  in  her 
existence,  for  her  solicitor  gave  them  a  check, 
drawn  out  and  signed  "Grace  Temple,"  for 
£1000,  and  on  the  check  being  presented  at  the 
bank  it  was  duly  honored.  So  the  next  house 
was  taken,  and,  in  grateful  acknowledgment  of 
our  mysterious  benefactor's  liberality,  it  was 
called  "  Grace  Temple,"  and  the  name  of  "Grace 
Temple"  was  painted  upon  the  walls  of  each  of 
the  wards. 

And  now  the  reader  knows  as  well  as  I  do 
myself  how  it  was  that,  eight  years  after  my 
flight  from  Laughton  in  the  night-mail,  I  came 
to  be  sitting  at  a  window  in  the  first  floor  of  an 
antique  mansion  in  JMarchioness  Street. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A   VULGAR    COMFORTER. 

Just  as  we  called  the  second  mansion  of 
which  our  hospital  was  composed  "Grace  Tem- 
ple," we  had  a  name  for  the  original  house  of 
the  Institution.  In  the  former  half  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  it  was  the  residence  of  a  famous 
physician,  whose  museum  was  a  feature  of  the 
town,  and  into  whose  rooms  all  the  great  peojjle 
of  the  countrj-,  and  all  distinguished  travelers 
from  foreign  countries,  found  their  way.  So  we 
call  it  "The  Doctor."  "The  Doctor"  was  set 
apart  for  the  sterner  business  of  the  hosi)ital —  j 
the  fever  ward,  and  the  infectious  wartl,  and  the 
ward  for  cases  which  gave  little  promise  of  re- 
covery. "  Grace  Temple"  had  the  nursery,  and 
the  quiet  room  for  convalescents,  and  the  day 
sleeping-room,  and  the  play-room — liberally  fur- 
nished with  swings,  and  rocking-horses,  and  a 
magnificent  patent  indoor  see-saw.     "  The  Doc- 


tor's Garden"  was  given  up  as  a  lonnging-place 
for  the  house-surgeon  and  his  friends,  ancl  was 
also  used  as  a  drying-ground  for  hosjiital  linen ; 
but  "Grace  Temple's  Garden"  was  kept  with 
great  care,  and  was  jirovided  with  a  wealth  of 
grots,  and  bowers,  and  secret  corners  for  the 
little  jjatients  to  jilay  in.  How  the  sick  children 
enjoyed  "Grace  Tenqile's  Garden,"  in  dingy, 
deserted  Marchioness  Street ! 

JNIy  duties  in  Marchioness  Street  were  contin- 
uous, and  sometimes  harassing,  but  by  God's 
blessing  they  were  a  constant,  comfort  to  me. 
Indeed,  if  I  could  put  all  my  life  before  the 
reader,  as  it  had  jjassed  hour  after  hour  for 
those  six  years  in  the  hospital,  he  would  be  sur- 
]>rised  at  finding  how  cheerful  I  was  now  and 
then.  There  was  one  side  of  deep  gloom  to  my 
life,  but  otherwise  I  had  much  to  be  tlumkful 
for.  By  degrees  a  terrible  certainty  had  grown 
ujjon  me — that  there  was  only  one  explanation 
to  Etty's  silence.  I  did  not  conceive  it  possible 
that  she  was  under  a  physical  restraint  that  jjre- 
cluded  her  from  sending  a  letter  to  me ;  and  I 
was  sm-e  that  were  she  married  she  would  at 
least  have  communicated  to  me  that  mucii  of 
her  position.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  she 
might  be  dead.  After  she  had  maintained  her 
silence  for  two  entire  years  I  always  thought  of 
her  as  erring.  God,  who  comforted  me  in  my 
trouble,  knows  how,  in  the  silent  hours  of  night, 
the  tears  of  my  old  aft'ection  for  her  wetted  my 
]iillow.  But  I  schooled  myself  to  fulfill  her  last 
request.  "Dear  Tibliy,"  she  had  written,  "do 
think  charitably  of  me.  Try  to  remember  only 
the  best  of  me."  And  in  a  great  degree  I  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  as  she  had  asked  me.  I  habit- 
ualh',  when  recalling  her,  compelled  myself  to 
think  of  all  that  was  sweetest  and  most  beauti- 
ful in  our  life  at  Farnham  Cobb — the  old  far- 
off"  time  when  she  used  nightly  to  kneel  at  my 
knees,  and,  turning  up  her  six-year-old  face  to 
me,  pray  to  "Our  Father,  who  art  in  heaven;" 
the  day  when  she  was  confirmed;  the  sacred 
morning  on  which  she  for  the  first  time  took  the 
sacrament;  the  efforts  she  had  made  to  subdue 
her  too  impetuous  temper  ;  the  solemn  purpose 
she  had  formed'to  be  a  woman  worthy  to  be  Ju- 
lian's wife !  It  was  on  such  jioints  in  her  life 
and  character  that  I  resolutely  mused.  And  to 
my  doing  so  I  very  much  attribute  a  pleasant 
and  most  cheering  hope  (which  grew  up  within 
me  till  it  amounted  to  a  sense  of  certainty)  that 
one  day  she  would  return  to  me  again,  and  be 
my  own  Etty,  and  join  with  me  in  daily  suppli- 
cation to  Our  Father  to  preserve  us  from  evil. 

It  did  not  occur  to  me,  till  long  after  all  oc- 
casion for  such  comfort  had  ceased,  that  this 
hope  was  granted  to  me  by  the  Heavenly  Mercy 
as  a  support  to  my  weakness,  and  a  refreshment 
in  my  sharjjcst  moments  of  dejection.  I  there- 
fore never  thanked  God  for  it  then  as  I  do 
now. 

By  degrees  this  sweet  anticipation  so  colored 
my  entire  life  that  on  New-Year's  Days,  when 
I  reflected  on  the  past  year  and  looked  forward 
to  the  coming  one,  I  used  to  wonder  if  that  open- 
ing year  were  the  one  in  which  my  confidence 
would  be  justified.  And  I  used  to  say,  "Oh, 
dear  Father,  if  it  seem  good  to  Thee,  let  Etty 
come  home  ere  this  year  be  done  !"  By  "  home" 
I  meant  my  embrace.  That  was  the  home  I 
had  to  offer  her. 


100 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


Thus  I  luul  more  content  than  I  can  well  make 
the  ivader  inulcrstand. 

But  in  other  ways  I  found  peace.  Fortunate- 
ly mv  jirivate  grief  did  not  embitter  me.  I  saw 
so  clearly  that  my  sorrow  was  exceptional,  that 
it  was  in  no  way  wliatever  an  indication  as  to 
the  ordinary  distribution  of  tribulation  in  this 
world.  And  in  enabling  me  to  see  this,  God 
showed  signal  care  for  me.  When  I  had  fairly 
recognized  the  fact  that  a  ])reponderance  of  hap- 
piness was  the  rule  of  human  life,  my  exceptional 
sorrow  became  greatly  less.  It  would  ill  become 
me,  who  have  been  so  singularly  blessed,  to  speak 
in  aself-suflBcientway  about  my  own  experiences, 
or  to  imply  that  any  portion  of  the  suffering  of 
those  who  were  once  my  fellow-sufferers  is  due 
to  fault  of  theirs ;  but  with  earnest  and  unob- 
trusive sympathy  I  suggest  to  the  unhappy  of  the 
earth,  that  they  should  strive  to  look  beyond 
their  individual  trials,  and  not  permit  grief  to 
discolor  their  vision.  For  myself  I  know  the 
great  comfort  I  derived,  in  my  retreat  in  Mar- 
chioness Street,  from  meditating  on  the  happi- 
ness from  which  I  Was  cut  off;  and  I  am  sure 
that  if  God  had  not  led  me  to  do  so,  I  should 
have  been  far  more  sad.  For  mere  pleasure  I 
rarely  went  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  hospital, 
save  at  night,  and  then  only  for  a  walk  up  and 
down  the  pavement,  or  for  a  saunter  in  Gray's 
Inn  Garden,  all  liy  myself;  but  whenever  I  did 
so,  I  relished  the  sight  of  hapjiiness.  I  enjoyed 
seeing  the  little  children  at  close  of  day,  jjlaying 
on  their  fathers'  and  mothers'  knees  in  the  shops 
of  Lamb's  Conduit  Street,  and  Red  Lion  Street. 
I  said,  "Heaven  bless  you  !  I  wish  I  might  go 
with  you  I"  when  a  carriage  full  of  bright  girls 
in  evening  dress,  bound  for  the  ball-room  or  the 
theatre,  passed  me  in  the  street.  And  a  favorite 
diversion  of  mine,  when  my  day's  work  was  over, 
and  my  little  jKvtients  were  all  asleep  in  the 
wards,  was  to  get  a  healthy,  hajipy  English 
novel — descriptive  of  joyful  home  life — and  for- 
get the  world  in  its  pages. 

My  sorrow  vaiicd  very  much  in  intensity.  It 
came  upon  my  soul  in  distinct  tides  with  regu- 
larly recurrent  paroxysms,  even  as  fever  makes 
its  war  on  the  body,  or  pain  racks  the  nerves. 
But  fortunately  the  Power  that  presided  over 
my  rising  up  and  my  lying  down  taught  me 
how  to  take  a  pjiilosophic  view  of  my  case,  and 
to  treat  my  mental  afHiction  judiciously.  When- 
ever my  grief  had  strongest  jjossession  of  me,  I 
fixed  my  thoughts  with  more  than  ordinary  reso- 
lution on  the  little  nameless  duties  of  the  day. 
Instead  of  looking  within  myself  at  every  idle 
moment,  I  looked  out  of  myself  at  the  clock,  and 
said,  "  Another  twenty  minutes  and  Dr.  Merrion 
will  be  here ;"  or  "  Ten  minutes  hence  Mr.  Giles, 
the  sui'geon,  will  want  the  new  bandages;"  or  I 
found  out  I  must  hasten  down  into  tlic  kitchen 
and  look  after  the  souj),  or  bustle  about  and  see 
that  tea  and  evening  meal  for  the  convalescents 
should  not  be  a  moment  after  the  appointed  time. 
If  I  were  asked  what,  above  all  other  mundane 
conditions,  I  most  desire  fur  those  who  labor  and 
are  heavily  laden  with  sornnv,  I  should  answer, 
that  tlicy  may  have  each  day  of  their  lives  an 
endless  succession  of  trivial  offices  to  discharge  ; 
offices  the  performance  of  which  requires  no  great 
mental  strain,  but  compels  the  actor  in  some 
measure  to  forget  his  or  her  own  self. 

This  was  one  way  in  which  duty  comforted  me. 


But  I  had  another  solace  from  duty. 

A  fiiithful  discharge  of  my  a])i)ointed  tasks 
saved  me  from  a  sense  of  isolation  amidst  the 
dense  multitudes  of  my  fellow-creatures,  spared 
me  that  most  dreary,  and  dismal,  and  torpifying 
conviction  which  those  groan  under  who  (with- 
out pleasures  to  divert  them)  stand  in  the  court 
of  their  own  consciences  accused  of  utter  uselcss- 
ness  in  the  great  human  family.  From  such  a 
benumbing  consciousness  my  humble  toil  saved 
me ;  and  at  the  times  when  the  blackest  tides 
were  rolling  over  me  I  could  always  say  at  night, 
while  I  lay  awake  without  power  to  sleep,  "  When 
it  is  daylight  I  shall  be  happier,  for  then  I  shall 
have  more  work  to  do.  I  know  my  work  is 
needed.  And  so  I  will  go  on  as  I  have  begun 
till  Etty  comes  home." 

I  had  yet  another  solace  from  duty,  and,  next 
to  a  secret  hope  that  my  patient  labor  was  a 
service  acceptable  to  my  Saviour,  it  was  the 
greatest  of  all  the  A-arious  consolations  so  derived. 

I  slowly  made  friends  among  the  fathers  and 
mothers  of  the  sick  children.  Months  after  their 
babes  had  been  restored  to  health  or  placed  in 
the  grave,  some  of  them  would  call  upon  me,  to 
tell  me  how  the  sick  child  I'estored  was  prosper- 
ing, or  how  the  sick  child  taken  to  heaven  Mas 
remembered.  And  thus  it  came  to  pass  also 
that  when  I  went  into  Lamb's  Conduit  Street,  or 
Red  Lion  Street,  or  Theobald's  Road,  to  make 
purchases  of  articles  necessary  for  the  hospital,  I 
seldom  returned  home  without  a  smile  and  a 
hearty  word. 

The  lesson  of  the  rose  had  come  home  to  me : 
"There  is  no  lot  in  life  so  stern,  and  cold,  and 
hard,  but  it  has  somewhere  a  warm  and  secret 
corner  in  which  human  affection  can  blossom." 

Dear,  dear  grandfather,  your  words  proved 
true ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 


HTDE    PARK. 


The  July  to  which  the  reminiscences  of  the 
three  preceding  chapters  have  more  than  once 
pointed  was  a  month  in  which  I  suffered  much 
l)odily  indisposition,  consequent  on  heat  and  fa- 
tigue. I  was  so  much  more  pale  and  thin  than 
it  was  my  wont  to  be,  that  people  began  to  cheer 
me  with  symjiathetic  assui'ances  that  I  looked 
very  ill  indeed.  "What  a  white,  ghostly  sort 
of  person  your  head-nurse  is !"  I  overheard  a  lady 
from  the  West  End  of  the  town  (jjaying  a  visit 
of  charity  to  the  hospital)  say  to  Dr.  Alerrion, 
who,  much  to  my  relief,  replied  (though  he  did 
not  know  I  was  within  car-shot),  ''Never  mind 
tliat,  she  is  a  capital  matron."  And  the  next 
day  the  kind  physician  said  to  me  in  his  soft, 
winning  A'oice,  "Don't  you  think,  Miss  Tree,  a 
change  of  air  and  scene  would  do  j^ou  good? 
Now  my  wife  is  staying  with  her  children  at 
Brighton.  She  has  a  large  house  there,  and 
would  be  delighted  to  receive  yon  as  her  visitor. 
Do  get  into  the  coach  and  make  a  trip  to 
Brighton.  The  sea-breeze  would  put  color  into 
your  checks."  I  told  the  considerate  doctor 
what  I  thought  of  his  invitation,  but  I  declined 
to  avail  myself  of  it,  saying  that  London  had 
been  a  good  friend  to  me  for  eight  j'cars,  and  I 
did  not  wish  to  lay  my  temporary  lassitude  to  its 
charKC. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


101 


Tlie  next  day  Mr.  Rover,  the  house-surgeon 
(a  fine-heurtcd  young  man  who  had  recently  en- 
tered the  hospital,  after  com])lcting  his  course 
of  study  at  St.  Bartholomew's),  attacked  me  on 
the  same  subject  in  a  ditl'ercnt  but  not  less  cor- 
dial manner. 

"I  say,  Miss  Tree,"  observed  the  young  sur- 
geon, "it'll  never  do  for  you  to  get  out  of 
health.  Dr.  Merrion  tells  me  you  won't  leave 
town ;  but  any  how  you  ought  to  take  the  change 
of  a  cheerful  walk  in  the  bright  quarters  of  the 
town  every  day.  I  am  like  you  in  not  thinking 
very  highly  of  the  countr}-,  but  I  couldn't  get 
on  if  I  never  stirred  out  of  this  dingy  old  street. 
You  ought  to  take  an  omnibus  up  to  Hyde  Park, 
and  give  your  head  and  lungs  a  holiday  under 
the  green  trees.  You'll  hardly  know  you  are 
breathing  when  you  get  tliere,  the  atmosphere 
at  the  West  End  is  so  much  more  clear  and  pure 
than  it  is  here." 

It  was  quite  a  new  thought  to  me. 

Hyde  Park  —  sunny,  green,  and  full  of  gay 
equipages ! 

"Mr.  Rover,"  I  said,  "  I'll  take  3-our  advice. 
On  Monday  next  I'll  get  into  an  omnibus  and 
ride  up  to  Hyde  Park." 

"Bravo  !  you're  a  sensible  woman.  Miss  Tree 
If  you'll  allow  me,  I'll  put  on  my  best  hat  and 
coat  and  escort  you." 

"No,"  I  answered,  "that  would  obviate  the 
purpose  of  the  trip.  I  want  to  get  out  of  the 
way  of  ever}^  thing  tliat  can  put  me  in  mind  of 
IMarchioness  Street,  of  which  j'ou  are  a  part." 

The  good-natured  young  man  laughed  hearti- 
ly at  my  thus  declining  his  company,  and  left 
me  with  an  exhortation  I  should  any  how  carry 
out  my  resolution. 

Hyde  Park  ! — I  had  been  eight  years  in  Lon- 
don, and  had  never  seen  either  Hyde  Park,  or 
Regent's  Park,  or  St.  James's  Park,  or  Regent 
Street,  or  Westminster  Abbey,  or  St.  Paul's  Ca- 
thedral. The  streets  and  squares  in  the  imme- 
diate neighl>orhood  of  Marchioness  Street  were 
the  extent  of  my  ordinary  perambulations.  Hol- 
born  I  had  strayed  into  about  half  a  dozen  times ; 
and  lately,  by  the  friendship  of  the  keeper  of  the 
northern  gate  of  Gray's  Inn,  I  had  frequently 
enjoyed  a  walk  after  dark  in  Bacon's  avenue,  in 
the  Gray's  Inn  Gardens.  I  of  course  Avas  not 
altogether  ignorant  of  the  places  I  have  just 
mentioned  as  having  never  seen,  for  I  had  read 
of  them  in  books  and  newspapers ;  and  years  ago 
I  had  heard  Mr.  Gurley  describe  them,  when 
Etty  and  I  had  planned  a  vacation  excursion  to 
the  metropolis.  "  Is  it  possible,"  I  can  imagine 
some  of  my  readers  exclaiming,  "that  a  well- 
educated  woman,  having  health  and  a  certain 
amount  of  liberty,  can  have  lived  eight  years  in 
London,  in  this  nineteenth  century,  without  hav- 
ing ever  seen  Hyde  Park  ?"  Is  it  possible  ?  Oh, 
my  dear  friends,  there  are  f;ir  stranger  things, 
and  nearer  to  your  own  doors  than  Marchioness 
Street,  that  you  know  nothing  of! 

The  orr^nibus  dro])ped  me  at  the  corner  of  the 
Edgeware  Road,  and,  entering  the  jiark,  I  looked 
on  a  scene  far  finer  than  any  thing  I  had  antici- 
pated would  reward  ni}^  enterjjrisc.  Tlie  m>\Ae 
mansions,  tlie  trees,  the  water,  and  the  ex])ansc 
of  green !  The  astonishment  and  the  gladness 
caused  by  what  I  saw  made  tears  conic  into  my 
eyes.  It  was  such  a  contrast  to  Marchioness 
Street.     That  I  should  have  lived  so  many  years 


in  London,  and  know  nothing  of  it  but  my  own 
quarter !  I  asked  a  gentleman  my  way  to  the 
"Duke  of  Wellington's  house."  He  smiled  at 
my  incpiiry  (doubtless  thinking  it  strange  that  I 
had  not  called  it  "  Ajisley  House"),  and  walked 
with  me  for  a  hundred  yards  to  a  jioint  where 
he  could  direct  my  attention  to  the  windows, 
covered  with  wire  fences.  Then  the  gentleman 
left  me,  and  I  paced  to  and  fro,  gazing  at  the 
Duke's  house,  and  recalling  how  Julian  Gowcr 
(as  school-boy  and  young  man)  never  passed 
through  London  without  looking  at  the  resi- 
dence of  the  Pater  PatriiC. 

The  season,  which  had  been  a  long  one,  was 
near  its  end ;  but  there  were  still  many  grand 
people  in  town,  and  fortunately  for  me  it  was 
just  the  hour  when  the  aristocracy  were  accus- 
tomed to  ride  and  drive  in  the  park.  Carriages 
of  every  description  rolled  by  me  in  every  direc- 
tion, and  equestrians  (ladies  as  well  as  gentle- 
men) on  sleek  blood-horses,  that  reminded  me 
of  Mr.  Petersham's  stud  at  Laughtou  Abbey, 
passed  before  me. 

I  spent  an  hour  in  gazing  at  the  brilliant  equi- 
pages, the  well-dressed  jjedestrians,  and  all  the 
features  of  the  gay,  inspiriting  exhibition,  when 
I  I'etired  from  the  ibot-patli  which  runs  round  the 
jioint  where  the  Achilles  stands,  and  seated  my- 
self on  a  wooden  bench  under  the  trees,  where  1 
had  a  command  of  the  scene  on  three  sides  of 
me. 

It  was  with  diiificulty  that  I  could  persuade 
myself  that  demure  and  dingy  Tibby  Tree,  the 
matron  of  the  Hospital  for  Sick  Children,  was 
really  looking  at  the  bright  objects  and  noble 
people  before  her,  and  was  not  in  a  dream.  It 
did  really  cross  my  mind  that,  from  causes  ei- 
ther within  me  or  without  me,  I  was  the  victim 
of  an  illusion.  And  this  feeling  came  back  with 
greater  strength  when  I  saw  a  lady  pass  before 
me,  and  look  at  me  with  an  unmistakable  ex- 
pression of  recognition  and  surprise,  and  then 
pass  on. 

iShe  was  tall,  slight,  rather  well-looking,  dress- 
ed richly,  but  with  striking  plainness,  in  silk  of 
that  neutral  tint  which  milliners  call  "slight"  or 
"half"  mourning.  It  was  evident  that  she  was 
a  lady — I  mean  by  that  a  member  of  the  gentle 
and  jiolite  classes.  Her  whole  stjde  told  me  this  ; 
her  elegant  figure  and  graceful  walk,  the  fault- 
less taste  of  her  attire,  and  the  benignant  com- 
posure of  her  face,  which  was  her  least  attract- 
ive point.  And  she  knew  me  !  Who  could  she 
be?  Eight  years  ago  I  had  left  Laughton,  so 
that  I  might  live  where  no  one  would  know  me, 
and  since  that  time  I  had  never,  to  my  knowl- 
edge, been  seen  by  any  person  acquainted  with 
■my  early  history.  The  time  was  when  the  un- 
known lady's  recognition  of  me  would  have  trou- 
bled me ;  but  I  had  in  part  outgrown  my  morbid 
fear  of  observation. 

Two  or  three  minutes  cla])scd  and  the  lady  re- 
turned, as  before,  with  no  conqianion,  cither  of 
her  own  or  a  menial  rank.  I  watched  her  as 
she  ap])roached,  and  decided  that  she  could  not 
be  more  than  my  own  age  however  well  she 
bore  her  years.  Of  course,  with  all  the  advant- 
ages of  toilet,  she  looked  mucli  younger  than  I. 
This  time  she  did  not  pass  me,  but  coining  straight 
to  the  bench  on  which  I  was  sitting  took  a  seat 
by  my  side. 

"  This  is  a  pleasant  change  for  you  after  the 


102 


OLIVE  BLAKES  GOOD  WORK. 


confiucnient  and  tuil  of  tlic  hospital,"  she  said, 
in  a  soft  and  conciliating  nuunier. 

'•  Why,''  I  ansAvcrcd,  starting  as  it  flashed  ii])on 
me  that  I  had  seen  her  on  the  jirevious  day, 
''I  saw  you  last  Sunday  evening  in  Marchioness 
Street ;  you  i)assed  down  the  street  twice,  and 
each  time  you  passed  jou  looked  up  at  the  Hos- 
pital for  Sick  Children." 

''Yes ;  and  I  saw  the  matron  sitting  at  one  of 
tlic  windows  of  'Grace  Temple,'"  was  the  an- 
swer, made  with  all  possible  composure. 

"I  wondered  how  you  came  there,"  I  ob- 
served. 

"Oh,"  she  replied,  carelessly,  "I  have  often 
heard  of  the  place ;  indeed,  my  name  is  on  your 
list  of  suljscril)ers,  and  I  thought  last  Sunday 
evening  I  should  like  to  see  the  outside  of  the 
hospital,  although  I  liad  never  penetrated  into 
its  interior." 

Wc  continued  our  conversation.  Partly  in  an- 
swer to  her  inquiries  and  partly  without  solicita- 
tion, and  simply  because  I  liked  her  aspect  and 
first  address,  I  gave  her  a  little  insight  into  my 
mode  of  life  in  the  institution  which  her  purse 
helped  to  maintain.  I  told  her  that  it  was  my 
first  visit  to  the  park  in  the  whole  course  of  my 
life,  and  that  though  I  had  been  for  six  years 
matron  of  the  hospital,  I  very  rarely  went  be- 
yond the  immediate  neighborhood  of  INIarchion- 
ess  Street.  She  asked  me  if  I  did  not  find  my 
existence  cheerless  in  so  desolate  a  jjlace,  and  I 
replied  in  the  negative ;  then  she  inquired,  ^^  ith 
a  sort  of  finc-lad}'  bewonderment  (which  I  thought 
affected  and  not  natural  to  her),  how  I  could  en- 
dure such  an  employment  as  I  had  there,  and  yet 
speak  of  it  contentedly ;  to  which  rather  ill-judged 
renuirk  I  responded  simjily  that  I  liked  the  em- 
ployment "because  the  duties  were  congenial  to 
my  tastes." 

"That's  good,"  she  said,  with  a  satisfied  air, 
to  this  answer;  "contentment  is  a  great  thing. 
You  would  do  good  work  if  you  would  manage 
to  impart  some  of  your  serenity  to  the  grand 
people  who  take  the  air  here,  and  would  die  of 
fright  if  they  were  even  driven  through  your 
gloomy  street." 

"They  seem  very  happy,"  I  answered. 

^'- Do  they?"  she  answered,  sharply,  yet  not 
scofiingly,  but  rather  with  a  womanly  sadness. 
"  Surely  they  don't  strike  you  as  happy  !  Their 
carriages  and  horses  and  servants  have  a  holiday 
aspect,  and  their  clothes  are  delicate  as  wedding 
garments  ;  but  ilun  arc  miserable  enough." 

"I  would  rather  not  think  them  so,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  to  do  so  would  pain  me.  Before 
you  ])assed  me  here  the  first  time  I  was  sitting 
in  the  midst  of  visions  of  their  liap]>iness.  When 
I  saw  a  young  girl  drive  by,  with  her  mother  by 
her  side,  and  a  gentleman  of  an  age  suitable  for 
her  husband  in  the  carriage  on  the  seat  ojiposite 
to  her,  I  said,  '  She'll  be  bride  soon.'  AVlien  a 
caiTiage  full  of  young  children,  imder  the  care 
of  a  lady,  went  by,  I  said,  '  What  a  happy  mo- 
ther !  how  full  of  gladness  she  must  be  with  those 
lovely  ehildien  !'  If  I  were  to  accept  your  doc- 
trine I  couldn't  do  this." 

"No.  You  would  think  how  the  young  girl 
was  scheming,  and  fawning,  and  pretending,  and 
/y"'.7  (tirf  a  rough  word  for  a  lady's  lips),  witli 
smiles  and  soft  speeches,  to  catch  a  rich  husband 


who  would  sign  her  a  check  with  the  right  Ii;.iid 
for  every  kiss  she  gave  him,  as  he  did  so,  on  the 
left  cheek.  You'd  think  how  the  lovely  children 
were  only  gamesters  and  coquettes,  knaves  and 
flirts — disguised  by  inf:\ncy." 

' '  Do  not  speak  so, "  I  answered.  ' '  Your  gentle 
voice  contradicts  your  words.  Should  1  lie  bet- 
ter, or  the  world  better,  if  I  put  faith  in  them?" 

"  'Tis  best  to  take  true  views  of  life." 

"  Every  view  of  life,"  I  answered,  "  is  an  ideal 
that  in  some  way  or  other  is  contradicted  by  the  ' 
world's  practice.  But  the  view  of  life,  which  is 
at  the  same  time  best  and  nearest  to  truth,  is 
the  ideal  formed  from  an  observation  of  what 
good  people  try  to  be  in  their  best  moments." 

"  Such  an  ideal  would  lead  those  who  cherish 
it  into  grave  mistakes." 

"Oh,  madam,"  I  answered,  gravely,  "a  wo- 
man shouldn't  say  so." 

I  did  not  wish  to  exchange  more  words  with 
her.  I  felt  that  we  were  ill-matched  companions ; 
and  for  all  tliat  her  voice  was  so  silver  sweet,  and 
her  eyes  were  powerful  with  earnest  gentleness, 
I  feared  that  her  life  was  tainted  with  a  poison 
that  was  infectious.  So  I  looked  as  though  I 
did  not  care  to  look  at  her  again. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "I'll  tell  you  a  story  of 
real  life,  and  you  shall  say  how  it  fits  in  with 
your  ideal.  Had  you  been  here  two  years  since, 
at  this  hour  of  almost  any  day  in  the  summer 
months,  you  would  have  seen  a  more  lovely  girl  by 
far  than  any  you  have  seen  this  day.  She  would 
have  appeared  before  you  riding  on  a  black  or 
white  horse  (she  rode  them  on  alternate  days, 
wlien  she  did  not  drive  a  phaeton  drawn  by  a 
j)air  of  cream-colored  ponies),  and  as  she  ap- 
])raaclied  you,  you  would  have  seen  the  noblest 
of  the  land  raise  their  hats  and  bow  profoundly 
to  her.  As  her  glossy  horse  passed  you,  daintily 
stepping  or  lightly  caracoling,  champing  its  bit 
and  throwing  about  its  silky  tail  after  the  flies ; 
and  as  the  girl  with  a  radiant  smile  of  trustful 
innocence  returned  the  deferential  salutations 
which  greeted  her  on  all  sides,  you,  with  your 
blind  faith  and  unsophisticated  credulity,  would 
have  said,  '  That  sweet  girl  is  born  of  a  noble 
house  ;  purity  without  stain,  sacred  love,  divine 
mercy  have  set  their  seals  upon  her  brow  ;  thrice 
happy  the  man  of  proud  lineage  and  ancient  hon- 
ors who  can  win  her  for  a  wife !'  Now  I'll  give 
you  the  reverse  of  the  picture.  I'll  recount  that 
fair  girl's  history." 

I  knew  that  she  was  bent  on  shocking  mc  with 
a  revelation  of  crime ;  I  could  not  (though  I 
dreaded  the  coming  narrative  as  a  child  might 
dread  the  blows  of  an  unkind  nurse)  implore  her 
to  spare  me.  There  was  a  fascination  in  her 
voice  that. forbade  interruption  ;  ay,  more,  a  fiis- 
cination  that  made  mc,  even  in  my  dread,  wish 
for  the  anguish  she  was  about  to  inflict. 

"The  girl  was  born  and  educated  in  the  coim- 
try.  She  and  her  sister  were  the  oqilian  grand- 
daughters of  a  worthy  old  clergyman,  who  edu- 
cated them  tenderly,  and  in  all  respects  as  girls 
of  their  rank  of  life  should  be  educated.  When 
the  old  man  died  the  girls  were  left  poor ;  but 
they  were  able  to  earn  a  comfortable  livelihood 
without  any  sacrifice  of  those  notions  of  dignity 
to  which  they  had  been  reared.  They  set  up  a 
school  in  a  little  country  town,  and  prospered  in 
their  calling;  the  sound  good  sense  of  tlie  elder 
sister  (who  was,  as  I  have  been  told,  a  plain  little 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


103 


boily)  and  the  graceful  attractions  of  the  beauti- 
ful sister  (about  whom  1  am  going  to  tell  you) 
forming  a  good  combination  of  qualities  for  com- 
mercial purposes.  Tlic  beautiful  sister  was  en- 
gaged to  a  young  man  in  her  own  rank  of  life 
— a  young  man  holding  some  sort  of  agency  in 
foreign  parts,  whetlier  in  America,  or  Cliina,  or 
elsewliere,  I  can  not  say.  He  has  been  descril)ed 
to  mc  as  a  young  man  altogether  snjjcrior  to  tlie 
common  lierd  of  young  men.  On  both  sides  it 
was  an  engagement  of  love.  He  had  no  money, 
the  girl  no  prospects  ;  but  they  hoped,  as  inexpe- 
rienced lovers  are  wont  to  hope,  that  a  few  years, 
spent  in  waiting  and  working,  would  terminate 
in  their  wedding.  Uo  I  tire  you?  Would  you 
like  to  hear  more  ?" 

"You  know  I  am  listening,"  I  said,  hoarsely, 
my  heart  thum])ing  against  my  breast,  and  al- 
most choking  me. 

"Adjoining  to  the  town  where  the  sisters  had 
their  school  was  a  great  county-house,  on  the  en- 
largement and  decoration  of  which  a  vain  par- 
venu spent  tlie  tliousands  his  beggared  descend- 
ants now  sorely  need.  This  house  was  visited, 
as  sucli  houses  are,  by  wliat  simple  folk  term 
'distinguished  society;'  and  'tlie  distinguished 
society,'  having  nothing  better  to  do  in  the  coun- 
try, amused  themselves  with  petting  and  flatter- 
ing the  village  schoolmistresses  who  lived  at  the 
park  gate  in  a  picturcsijue  cottage  omce.  Among 
tills  distinguished  society  was  an  ofticer  in  the 
Indian  army,  wlio  carried  the  game  so  far  as  to 
swear  he  loved  (die  pretty  sister,  with  her  inno- 
cent face  and  golden  hair.  Well,  wliat  do  you 
think  she  did  ?  Told  her  magnilicent  suitor  that 
her  hand  was  already  disposed  of?  Said  him 
'nay,'  because  womanly  honor  and  duty,  as  well 
as  atfjction,  precluded  her  from  returning  his 
passion  ?  No  such  tiling !  He  was  a  member 
of  '  distinguished  society' — was  reputed  to  be 
wealthy.  A  fig  for  lier  lover  in  foreign  parts ! 
She  put  herself  in  the  hands  of  '  the  officer' 
(poor  doll  I — the  title  tickled  her!  The  young 
man  in  foreign  parts  was  only  '  a  clerk'),  and 
he  treated  her  as  she  deseiwed  to  bo  treated. 
She  had  thrown  the  '  clerk'  aside  without  com- 
punction, and  when  it  answered  his  purpose  to 
do  so  the  distinguished  officer  and  member  of 
'high  society'  tlirew  her  aside  just  as  contempt- 
uously. Possibly  tlie  man  offered  to  marry  her, 
but  if  §0,  he  didn't  fulfill  his  promise ;  and  in 
due  course,  when  he  had  grown  tired  of  his  toy, 
he  went  back  to  India,  wliere  he  has  become  a 
hero.  But  the  sweet  innocent  cliild  knew  how 
to  console  herself.  She  established  herself  in 
town,  and  commenced  a  career  of  unblushing 
sin — of  triumpliant  wickedness — such  as  I  can 
not  reflect  upon  without  giving  utterance  to  the 
indignant  contempt  which  a  woman  feels  when 
she  witnesses  the  shame  of  her  sex.  As  I  told 
you,  when  that  creature,  with  her  innocent 
smiles,  and  her  waxen  face,  and  her  blue  eyes, 
rode  or  drove  her  ponies  in  the  jiark,  at  least  one 
Aa^'of  the  world  rendered  her  more  respect  than 
the  same  beauty  united  to  virtue  could  ever  have 
commanded.  How  does  my  story  fit  in  with 
your  ideal  ?" 

I  did  not  rejily  to  the  cruel  question ;  but, 
looking  into  tlie  hidy's  face,  I  said,  "Where  is 
that  ])oor  girl  ?  Take  me  to  her.  The  sight  of 
me  would  make  her  repent." 

"  I  lead  you  to  lier  I    Bless  mc,  I  Iiave  no  no- 


tion where  she  is.  I  have  been  talking  of  two 
years  since.  Slie  had  already  been  a  feature  of 
the  ])ark  for  a  season.  Two  summers  are  a  long 
life  for  such  butterflies.  I^ast  summer  slie  did 
not  make  her  appearance,  and  tliis  year  all  the 
j)roud  nobles  who  used  to  raise  their  hats  to  her 
have  forgotten  tliat  such  a  character  ever  en- 
gaged tiieir  attention.  Slie  has  gone  down  the 
stream.  The  current  of  fashionable  frivolity 
quickly  bore  the  frail,  airy  vessel  of  her  beauty 
over  these  sliining  waters.  Dancing  to  and  fro, 
slie  left  her  j)atrician  admirers ;  borne  on  to  her 
ajjpointed  end,  she  is  now  perhaps  sailing  over 
a  less  translucent  portion  of  the  stream,  which 
ever  grows  more  murky  and  impure,  more  cov- 
ered with  unwholesome  scum,  and  more  thickly 
populated  with  unsightly  objects,  as  it  approacli- 
es  nearer  to  that  dead,  silent,  motionless  sea  to 
wiiicli  it  flows — merrily  enough  at  first,  but  very 
sluggishly  at  last.  Perhaps  her  voyage  is  al- 
ready at  an  end.  Possibly  her  cockle-shell  of  a 
boat  went  down  beneath  tlie  scum  of  tlie  river, 
or  is  lying  at  tlie  bottom  of  tlie  dead,  and  silent, 
and  motionless  sea  of  corruption  !" 

I  heard  no  more  of  lier  words.  She  continued 
to  speak ;  but  the  strain  of  her  utterances,  min- 
gled with  the  strain  of  sound  caused  by  the  hol- 
low rumble  of  the  rolling  carriages,  and  with  the 
breeze  fluttering  the  leaves  above  us,  so  that  not 
one  word  of  them  could  be  separated  from  the 
confused  murmur.  Then  objects  flitted  quickly 
before  my  eyes,  and  came  back  and  danced  round 
me.  The  carriages,  and  horses,  and  riders,  and 
prattling  pedestrians  had  the  appearance  of  sur- 
rounding me  and  doing  something  with  me. 

■  The  next  fact  I  remember  of  that  day's  pro- 
ceedings was  being  lifted  out  of  a  carriage  in 
Marchioness  Street,  and  being  conveyed  uj)  the 
wide  staircase  of  "Grace  Temple"  to  my  bed- 
room. 

On  quite  coming  to  myself  all  that  I  could 
learn  from  the  hospital  nurses  was  that  I  had 
fainted  in  Hyde  Park,  and  that  a  lady,  who  Avas 
passing  at  the  time,  and  knew  where  I  lived, 
had  brought  me  home  in  her  carriage.  The 
nurse,  who  had  oi)ened  the  door  of  the  hospital 
to  admit-me,  had  endeavored  to  make  the  lady 
state  her  name,  by  observing  that  "Miss  Tree 
would,  when  she  'came  round,'  like  to  know 
the  name  of  the  lady  to  whom  she  was  indebted 
for  her  kindness."  But  this  mode  of  interroga- 
tion was  met  by  the  lady  with  crushing  frank- 
ness. "No;  1  ilon't  mean  to  give  you  my 
name,  because  I  don't  wish  either  you  or  Miss 
Tree  to  know  it."     This  was  the  lady's  answer. 

The  nurses  described  the  lady  as  tall,  and 
sliglit,  and  well-looking — dressed  in  silk,  which 
had  the  aspect  of  half-mourning.  I  was  uncon- 
scious when  the  carriage  stopped  in  JMarchioness 
Street,  but  I  had  "come  to  myself"  on  being 
lifted  out  of  the  vehicle.  On  hearing  that  I  iiad 
opened  my  eyes,  and  recov(>red  possession  of  my 
faculties,  the  lady  (who  had  entered  the  Imspilal 
before  I  "came  to")  took  an  immediate  depart- 
ure, without  again  looking  at  me.  It  struck 
the  nurses  that  the  lady  wished  to  avoid  being 
recognized  by  me. 

Tills  was  all  the  nurses  could  tell  me ;  and 
consoipiently  I  was  left  in  doubt  as  to  whether 
flic  lady  who  had  accom|ianied  me  from  Hytle 
Park  to  Marchioness  Street  was  the  same  lady 
with  whom  I  had  talked  under  ihe  trees. 


104 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


CHAPTER  V. 

CLUSTER-TATTING. 

I  piD  not  repeat  my  excursion  to  Hyde  Park. 
The  murky  neighborhood  of  Marchioness  Street 
was  the  proper  quarter  for  me. 

It  never  occurred  to  me  to  question  for  a 
moment  wlietlier  the  strange  lady,  who  had  ac- 
costed me  near  Apsley  House,  had  been  sjjealc- 
ing  of  my  sister  or  of  another  girl ;  so  certain 
Avas  I  that  Etty,  and  no  one  else,  had  been  the 
object  of  portraiture.  If  I  felt  doubt  on  any 
point  connected  with  the  mysterious  interview, 
it  was  on  the  question  whether  the  lady  knew 
she  was  telling  the  history  of  my  dear  lost  cliild 
to  that  same  lost  child's  sister.  The  lady  was  a 
subscriber  to  the  hospital,  and  as  such  of  course 
had  a  copy  of  the  annual  rejjort  of  the  Com- 
mittee regularly  transmitted  to  her.  My  name 
of  "Tabitha  Tree"  always  ai)i)eared  in  the  list 
of  the  officers  and  servants  attached  to  tlie  in- 
stitution. It  was  therefore  in  all  probability 
known  to  the  lady  who  was  so  familiar  with  the 
misdeeds  and  shame  of  "Annette  Tree."  It 
was  true,  she  had  said  nothing  which  demon- 
strated she  knew  eitlier  my  name,  or  that  of  tlie 
wi-etched  girl  whose  course  she  had  so  forcibly 
described.  It  was  also  more  tlian  probable  that 
Etty  on  leaving  Laugliton  had  desisted  from 
using  lier  own  name.  "But,"  I  said  to  myself, 
when  r  had  summed  these  and  many  other  simi- 
lar points  of  consideration,  "what  does  it  mat- 
ter whether  I  am  recognized  or  not  ?  The  re]i- 
utation  I  have  earned  here  will  shield  me  from 
unkind  criticism ;  and  I  have  outlived  the  feel- 
ings which  once  confused  my  ideas  of  misfortune 
and  shame." 

But  though  I  said  this,  I  did  not  send  my 
proper  address  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gurley.  A  se- 
cretive habit  is  perhaps  tlie  strongest  and  most 
incurable  of  all  habits ;  and  consequentl}-,  now 
that  a  sense  of  humiliation  and  disgrace  no  lon- 
ger compelled  me  to  hide  myself  from  observa- 
tion, 1  still  wished  to  run  as  few  chances  as  pos- 
sible of  being  unearthed  by  my  old  friends  of  the 
corn  country. 

After  all,  the  paiufid  intelligence  communi- 
cated by  the  lady  in  Hyde  Park  was  only  a  vivid 
picture  of  what  I  had  myself  for  years  vaguely 
imagined.  I  had  long  regarded  my  sister  as 
erring ;  and  the  lady's  narrative  had  proved  to 
me  that  my  opinion  was  correct.  It  eilected, 
however,  something  more.  It  raised  in  my 
breast  a  feeling  that  the  time  was  fast  approach- 
ing when  Etty  would  come  home  to  me.  Two 
years  before  she  had  taken  her  last  rides  in  the 
park.  Since  then  she  had  vanished  from  those 
bright  scenes  of  her  butterfly  triumph,  and  fall- 
en into  more  obscure,  if  not  less  rcprehensilile, 
ways.  To  use  the  lady's  simile,  tlie  poor  child's 
frail  bark  of  beauty  had  gone  lower  down  the 
stream ;  but  my  certain  confidence  (God  be 
praised !)  still  remained  unshaken,  that  it  would 
neither  sink  beneatli  the  scum  of  the  murky 
river,  nor  dro])  down  irrecoverably  in  tlie  silent, 
motionless  sea.  IIo])e  wliispered  to  me  that  ere 
the  year  ended  my  darling  would  come  liome. 

I  recovered  my  strength  without  going  out  of 
town ;  but  when  my  vigor  liad  returned  I  still 
sorely  needed  mental  composure  I  became 
restless,  unable  to  sleep  at  night,  subject,  to  sud- 
den startings,  and  liable  to  fancy  ni\-<seif  address- 


ed, or  even  touched,  when  there  was  no  one  neat 
to  accost  or  lay  liand  upon  me.  I  went  more 
frequently  to  walk  in  the  Gray's  Inn  Gardens, 
not  so  much  for  the  quiet  and  solitude  of  Ba- 
con's avenue  as  for  a  passing  word  with  the  keep- 
er of  the  north  gate.  Tliis  keeper  of  the  north 
gate  of  Gray's  Inn  was  a  gi'cat  friend  of  mine. 
His  only  child — an  unhappy  little  cripple — had 
died  in  the  Hospital  for  Sick  Children,  and  he 
cherislictl  a  livel}-  gratitude  to  me  for  what  he 
called  "my  goodness  to  his  little  'un."  He  was 
a  sober  married  man,  and  advanced  in  years. 
The  lost  child,  indeed,  had  been  a  child  of  his 
old  age,  and  as  such  had  been  beloved.  The 
honest  man  was  my  letter-receiver ;  and  when- 
ever I  wished  for  a  quiet  walk  after  dark  I  used 
to  tap  at  his  door,  and  get  liim  to  open  the  iron 
gate  in  the  railings  intervening  between  his  lodge 
and  Raymond  Buildings,  and  let  me  into  the  Inn 
Gardens.  Often,  with  tlie  moon  and  stars  shin- 
ing clear  above  the  tops  of  the  trees,  or  with  a 
sharp  blustrous  wind  tossing  the  black  clouds, 
and  driving  tliem  one  above  another,  have  I 
walked  in  those  gardens — while  thQ  light  of  the 
barristers'  lamps  and  candles  illumining  the  win- 
dows of  Verulum  Buildings  and  Raymond  Build- 
ings gave  me  a  feeling  of  security  ! 

Wliy  didn't  Etty  M'rite  ?  Surely  there  must 
be  a  letter  in  the  North  Lodge  from  Laugliton, 
inclosing  one  sent  to  me  there  by  my  darling! 
Sureh'  there  must,  although  there  was  none  three 
nights  back.  I  would  step  round  to  Gray's  Iim 
after  the  convalescent  children  ^vere  in  bed,  and 
ask  my  friend  the  porter  if  lie  hadn't  a  letter. 
Of  course  tlie  porter  would  have  gladly  brought 
my  letters  to  the  hospital ;  but  to  permit  him  to 
do  so  would  have  jarred  against  that  secretive 
liaViit  which  had  become  a  second  nature  to  me. 
If  I  tried  to  give  the  reader  a  just  idea  of  this 
peculiarity,  which  had  been  forced  upon  me  by 
circumstances,  I  should  fail ;  so  I  will  not  al- 
lude to  it  again,  but  only  say  that  it  was  well 
displayed  by  my  always  going  to  the  porter  for 
my  letters,  instead  of  allowing  him  to  bring  them 
to  me  in  Great  Marchioness  Street. 

"Have  you  a  letter?"  I  used  to  ask  my  re- 
ceiver, when  he  answered  my  tap. 

"No,  madam,"  the  ordinary  answer  would 
be;  "sorry  I  am  there  is  no  letter;  but  there's 
the  garden." 

As  I  returned  from  my  walk  in  the  garden, 
and  passed  tlie  night-]iorter's  lodge  on  my  way 
home,  I  usually  found  him  on  the  look-out  for 
me,  smoking  a  pipe.  If  it  was  a  fine  night,  with- 
out clouds  or  wind,  the  simple  fellow  would  make 
some  remark  to  the  eftect  tftat  "it  was  a  sweet 
night  for  liim  to  smoke  his  pijie  and  think  about 
'  tlie  little  'uu'  iu ;"  or  if  it  was  a  rough,  blus- 
trous night,  lie  would  sny  "tlie  wind  screamed 
and  racketed  so  round  the  corners  that  he  could 
not  think  of  the  little  'un."  Once  I  asked  him 
if  the  noise  outside  the  gates  in  King's  Road  and 
Gray's  Inn  Lane  did  not  disturb  his  meditations 
1)11  "  the  little  'un,"  when  he  answered,  "No,  not 
in  the  least,  for  '  the  little  'un'  was  always  very 
].iartial  to  tiie  roar  of  the  streets,  maintaining 
that  it  closely  resembled  tlie  music  of  a  cliurch 
organ."  These  were  our  only  topics,  and  almost 
our  onl}'  sentences  of  conversation ;  but  they 
kejit  us  good  friends  and  congenial  companions 
for  several  years. 

But  the  letter  never  came. 


p 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


106 


No ;  it  never  came. 

My  longing  was  answered  in  anotlicr  fashion. 

In  the  November  following  my  memorable  ex- 
cursion to  Ilyde  I'ark  a  patient  was  admitted  into 
the  hospital  under  cireumstances  which  caused 
the  Committee  considerable  excitement.  It  was 
a  part  of  ray  duties  to  receive  the  children  ad- 
mitted on  reception  mornings,  and  make  an  en- 
try in  the  hospital  register  of  certain  particulars 
concerning  each  new  patient.  The  ceremony 
and  forms  of  admission  were  these :  On  the 
Tuesday  of  each  week  (which  was  "  the  receiv- 
ing-day") every  poor  person  wishing  to  place  a 
sick  child  in  the  hospital  had  to  appear  with  the 
invalid  and  an  "admission  order"  signed  by  a 
governor  (each  subscriber  of  two  guineas  was  a 
governor,  and  was  entitled  to  sign  six  "admis- 
sion orders''  per  annum).  One  of  the  physicians 
then  examined  the  ap}>licant  for  admission,  and, 
on  finding  him  or  her  a  fit  subject  for  medical 
or  surgical  treatment  iu  the  wards,  coimtersigned 
the  order  of  admission.  On  this  the  patient  was 
entitled  to  all  the  benefits  of  the  institution  ;  and 
I  had  to  enter  in  the  college  register  such  pa- 
tient's name,  age,  parentage,  residence  of  par- 
ents, and  the  name  of  the  recommending  gov- 
ernor, together  with  an  inventory  of  the  clothes 
worn  by  the  patient  at  the  date  of  admission.  I 
had  also  to  make  the  mother  or  responsible  friend 
of  each  child  (depositing  such  child  in  the  hos- 
pital) sign  a  printed  form,  engaging  to  remove 
the  child  promptly  on  receiving  a  notice  from 
me  to  do  so,  and  also  engaging,  in  case  of  death, 
to  provide  the  child  with  suitable  interment. 

The  reader  is  now  in  a  position  to  imderstand 
the  following  entry  in  the  Hospital  Register  for 
Indoor  Patients : 

Patient.  iVo.  176G. 

Name.  Alfred  JourJain. 

Age.  Six  years  and  nine  montlis. 

Sex.  Male. 

Parentage.  Motlier  dead.  Father,  Robert  Jourdain,  a 
shoemaker  with  irregular  employment ;  residing  at  4  Lis- 
son  Court,  New  Road. 

Name  of  lieconvniendinq  Governor.  Miss  Grace  Temple. 

Name  and  Address  of  Person  de- "]  Anna  Harney,  the 
■positing  the  Child  (adding,  if2MSsi-  Grandmother  of  the 
ble,  the  relation  of  such  jyerson  to  !>child ;  residing  at  4 
the  child)  and  engaging  to  2}rovide,  Lisson  Court,  New 
in  case  of  Death,  for  its  interment.    J  Road. 

Inventory  of  Articles  of  Clothing,  brought  b'j  Alfred 
Joiu-dain  into  the  Hospital  for  Sic/c  Children: 

1.  A  cap. 

2.  A  coat  of  black  and  white  cheek  stuff. 

3.  A  liuen  shirt. 

4.  A  pair  of  trowsers  of  the  same  material  as  the  coat. 

5.  A  pair  of  cotton  socks. 

6.  One  boot. 

7.  A  woolen  comforter  for  the  neJk. 

The  words  in  Italics  constititted  the  ordinary 
printed  form  of  tlie  Hospital  Register  Book.  The 
•words  filling  up  the  vacant  spaces  of  the  form 
were  in  my  handwriting. 

I  was  present  in  the  receiving-room  when  Al- 
fred Jourdain  (Indoor  Patient  No.  17GG)  was 
brought  into  the  aijartment  by  Anna  Harney — a 
stout,  dirty,  coarse,  harsh-looking  woman.  Dr. 
Merrion  had  already  sjient  two  hours  of  his  val- 
uable time  in  examining  applicants  for  admis- 
sion and  prescribing  for  out-patients ;  and  he, 
as  well  as  I,  supposed  his  morning's  work  over, 
when  this  Anna  Harney  entered  with  the  child 
in  her  arms,  swaddled  in  a  thick  shawl.  The 
name  affixed  to  her  order  of  admission  imme- 
diately attracted  Dr.  Merrion's  attention,  for 
though  Miss  Grace  Temple  had  so  greatly  bene- 


fited the  hos])ital  she  had  never  before  sent  a  pa- 
tient to  it.  At  Ic'iiglh,  however,  she  had  trans- 
mitted to  us  one  in  a  bad  ]ilight.  Although  he 
was  ajjproaching  the  close  of  his  seventh  year, 
the  child  was  as  diminutive  as  many  children 
only  three  or  four  years  old.  The  thin  face, 
with  all  the  curves  of  healthy  childhood  straight- 
ened out  so  as  to  give  acute  angles  at  the  chin, 
the  nose,  the  check,  and  jawbones ;  the  nervous, 
watchful  eyes  having  in  their  prodigious  pupils 
an  ex])ression  of  pathetic  earnestness ;  the  pink 
flush  in  the  centre  of  his  pallid  checks ;  the  dry 
lips,  and  the  bowed  frame,  gave  the  particulars 
of  the  child's  state  to  the  most  casual  observers. 
Dr.  Merrion  took  his  stethoscope,  and,  having 
listened  for  a  few  seconds  to  the  child's  breath- 
ing, said,  with  a  glance  that  I  knew  well  how  to 
interpret,  "Acute  Tuberculosis — Miss  Tree.  Far 
advanced.  Yon  must  manage  to  give  the  child 
a  bed."  Though  neither  the  sick  child  nor  Anna 
Harney  had  a  glimjjse  of  the  doctor's  real  com- 
munication, I  imderstood  him  to  say,  just  as 
plainly  as  if  he  had  said  so  in  the  most  exjjlicit 
words,  "This  poor  little  boy  is  suffering  from 
the  pulmonary  consumption  of  young  children. 
He'll  be  dead  in  a  few  days.  As  we  can  not  by 
any  possibility  do  him  any  good,  I  would  rather 
not  admit  him,  for  the  fatal  termination  of  his 
hopeless  case  will  help  to  swell  otir  mortality  list, 
and  frighten  the  public.  But  I  must  admit  him 
— for,  look,  he  brings  Miss  Grace  Temple's  or- 
der!" So  the  miserable  child  was  given  into 
my  custody ;  and  Anna  Harney  having  engaged 
to  be,  in  case  of  his  death,  responsible  for  Alfred 
Jourdain's  suitable  interment,  took  her  depart- 
ure, just  as  Dr.  Merrion  ran  off  to  his  carriage 
to  visit  his  West  End  patients. 

In  the  extract  just  put  before  the  reader  from 
the  Hospital  Register,  he  can  not  fail  to  have 
observed  another  remarkable  entry,  besides  the 
name  of  the  recommending  governor — the  en- 
try, namely,  of  a  linen  shirt  among  the  articles 
of  the  boy's  wearing  apparel.  How  came  the 
child  possessed  of  a  linen  shirt  ?  Stich  a  piece  of 
clothing  no  child  before  him  had  brought  into 
the  institution,  from  the  day  of  its  being  opened. 
The  shirts  of  poor  children  are  made  of  the  coars- 
est material;  whereas  this  child  had  an  under- 
garment of  linen  of  the  finest  texture.  What 
made  this  circumstance  all  the  stranger,  was  that 
in  other  respects  the  child  was  wretchedly  clad. 
A  reference  to  the  inventory  will  satisfy  the  read- 
er of  that. 

The  number  of  new  admissions  to  the  wards 
that  day  was  unusually  great ;  and  the  ntirses 
were  proportionately  busy — as  it  was  a  rule  of  the 
institution  that  no  child  should  be  taken  into  the 
wards  where  other  children  were  until  it  had 
had  a  warm  bath,  and  (if  the  precaution  seemed 
necessary)  had  been  clothed  in  fresh  raiment 
supplied  by  the  hospital.  Alfred  Jourdain  had 
therefore  to  lie  on  a  cottch,  warmly  covered  up, 
before  the  waiting-room  fire,  for  ipore  than  an 
hour,  ere  he  cotxld  have  his  bath  and  be  put  to 
bed.  At  length,  however,  that  task  was  accom- 
plished ;  and  just  about  the  same  time  I  took  up 
his  discarded  clothes  (in  lieu  of  which  he  was 
sup]ilicd  witii  a  flannel  jacket  and  night-dress 
from  my  stores)  and  examined  them,  before  de- 
scribing them  in  the  register. 

"Linen,"  I  said,  as  my  touch  recognized  the 
soft,  cool  material,  so  unlike  harsh,  hot  cotton — 


106 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  AVORK. 


"it  can  not  1)C."  But  linen  it  was — filthily  be- 
primed  and  ragf]!cd,  without  a  donht,  but  still 
linen.  It  was  already  getting  dark  ;  for  though 
there  was  no  fog,  the  month  of  November  was, 
according  to  its  wont,  causing  the  days  to  close 
in  early.  I  went  to  the  window  to  examine  the 
little  shirt  more  nearly,  when  I  found  it  was  or- 
namented with  a  lace  edging  round  the  lappets. 
The  lace,  like  the  rest  of  the  garment,  was  as 
black  as  if  it  had  been  just  taken  from  a  dust- 
hole  ;  but  it  had  a  stronger  effect  upon  me  than 
the  linen  fabric.  It  was  an  edging,  of  the  work 
known  among  ladies  as  "tatting."  As  a  girl  at 
Farnham  Cobb,  I  had  been  very  fond  of  and 
clever  in  the  management  of  tatting-work.  I 
invented  three  altogether  new  patterns,  one  of 
W'hich  was  very  pretty,  and  was  consequently 
a  source  of  much  pride  to  me.  I  called  it 
"cluster-tatting,"  because  it  was  made  in  little 
bunches  or  clusters  of  work  done  in  imitation 
of  the  "forget-me-not"  blossom.  "Merciful 
Heavens!"  I  exclaimed  to  myself,  "this  is  my 
work.  This  is  some  of  the  cluster-tatting  I 
made  for  Etty,  I  did  it."  Men  perhaps  will  be 
incredulous  as  to  the  possibility  of  a  person's  re- 
cognizing her  own  fancy  work,  after  ton  or  t\^•elve 
years  have  elapsed  since  its  manufacture.  But 
such  incredulity  will  not  be  shared  by  women. 
I  knew  it  was  impossible  that  I  was  mistaken. 
That  was  my  cluster-tatting — the  same  that  I  had 
invented,  and  wrought  thread  by  thread,  and 
made  of  most  exquisite  fineness  and  delicacy  for 
a  New-Year's  present  for  Etty. 

How  came  the  poor  child,  just  admitted  to  the 
hospital  with  Miss  Grace  Temple's  order,  to  be 
dressed  in  a  garment  so  ornamented  with  the 
work  of  my  fingers  ?  No,  it  could  not  be !  It 
was  impossible ! 

Hastening  to  the  ward  in  which  I  had  ordered 
a  bed  to  be  ])rcpared  for  the  child,  I  sought  him 
out,  and  subjected  him  to  a  searching  scrutiny. 

"  Why  do  you  look  so,  ma'am  ?"  the  little  fel- 
low said.     "I  have  done  nothing  wrong." 

I  kissed  him,  and  comforting  him  with  the  as- 
surance that  I  believed  him  to  be  a  very  good 
boy,  I  knelt  down  by  his  bedside  and  spoke  to 
him— enticing  him  to  confide  in  me. 

"Have  you  any  brothers  and  sisters,  dear?"  I 
asked. 

"No,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  ;  "no broth- 
ers and  sisters,  only  grandmother." 

"Have  you  always  lived  in  Lisson  Court?" 

"  Oh — no — not  ahva3's ;  but  a  long  time. 
Since  mamma  died.  When  she  was  alive  I 
didn't  live  in  Lisson  Court." 

It  was  strange  the  child  should  talk  of  his 
mamma  and  his  grand/Ho//(fr. 

"  Where  did  yon  live  ?  Can  you  recollect  the 
name  of  the  jilace?" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  shaking  his  head  wearily  ; 
"but  it  was  not  Lisson  Court." 

"Was  it  in  the  country?"  I  inquired. 

"  The  country,"  he  repeated.  "  Where  is  the 
country,  ma'am  ?  I  don't  know  where  the  coun- 
try is." 

"It's  where  the  green  trees  and  the  flowers 
are." 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  a  smile  of  intelligence 
and  triumph — the  saddest  cliild's  smile  I  have 
ever  witnessed — crossing  his  wan  face,  and  sharp- 
ening all  Us  numerous  acute  angles,  "you  mean 
the  sqxtare!     No,  we  didn't  live  in  the  sqitare." 


"  Had  your  mamma  hair  like  vours,  or  was  it 
black  ?" 

"  I  don't  remember,"  he  said,  after  musing  a 
few  seconds,  "but  she  was  very  pretty — she  was 
like  the  lady  in  the  theatre,  only  much  prettier." 

As  he  said  this  he  closed  his  eyes  in  sheer 
weariness,  and  in  two  minutes  he  was  asleej). 

As  soon  as  I  saw  him  fiist  held  by  tranquil 
slumber  I  went  down  into  the  kitchen,  and  hav- 
ing transacted  my  business  in  that  quarter  ascend- 
ed to  the  ward  in  which  he  was,  bearing  a  sup- 
ply of  beef-tea  and  wine  for  him.  When  I  came 
again  to  his  bedside  he  was  still  asleep,  his  ex- 
treme ])rostration  having  presented  him  with  two 
hours  of  unbroken  repose.  I  roused  him,  and 
gave  him  some  of  my  strong  beef-tea  and  two  or 
three  tea-spoonfuls  of  wine.  "  Thank  you,  dear 
mamma,"  he  said,  after  taking  the  refreshment, 
"  I  shall  be  better  soon.  Thank  you,  mamma." 
As  he  murmured  for  a  second  time  the  most  sa- 
cred human  title  a  child  can  utter,  he  closed  his 
eyes,  and  once  more  was  asleep. 

He  looked  at  me  agam  three  hours  afterward, 
when  I  induced  him  to  take  some  more  refresh- 
ment ;  and  after  surveying  me  in  a  doubtful,  half- 
frightened  manner,  and  after  twice  thanking  me 
for  my  care,  and  the  nice  things  I  gave  him,  he 
said,  "Please,  ma'am,  may  I  say  my  prayers?' 

"Surely,  dear  child,"  I  answered. 

On  this  permission  being  granted,  he  coiled 
his  Ihnbs  up  wearily  on  his  bed,  and  turned  round 
on  to  his  knees,  and  taking  hold  of  my  hand,  he 
said  the  same  child's  prayer  which  I  and  Etty 
(like  so  many  hundreds  of  thousands  of  children 
before  and  after  us)  used  to  say.  But  as  a  con- 
clusion to  his  supplications  he  added,  "And, 
pray  God,  take  care  of  aunt !" 

"Have  you  only  one  aunt,  dear?"  I  asked, 
when  he  laid  his  head  down  again  on  his  pillow. 

He  evidently  did  not  understand  me. 

"Who  is  your  aunt?" 

"/  haven't  an  aunt,"  he  answered,  with  his 
old  troubled  look. 

"Tiien  why  do  you  say,  'Pray,  God,  take 
care  of  aunt  I'" 

"Oh!"  he  cried,  the  same  sad  look  of  exult- 
ant intelligence  crossing  the  sharpened  featuj-es, 
"aunt  isn't  mine  more  than  yours.  She's  the 
best  woman  that  ever  lived." 

"  Who  taught  you  that  ])rayer,  dear  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  mamma — to  be  sure— dear  mamma." 

As  the  child  said  this  he  raised  his  little  thin 
hand  and  laid  it  upon  the  outside  of  the  coverlet, 
and  in  another  half-minute  he  was  asleep  again. 

I  had  taken  charge  of  that  ward  for  the  night, 
and  as  all  the  children  were  aslec]i,  and  no  one 
was  present  to  disturb  me,  and  I  had  not  already 
offered  my  nightly  service  of  devotion,  I  said  my 
I)rayers — kneeling  by  the  little  boy's  bed,  with  my 
hand  on  his. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  TESTIMONIAL  OF  REGARD. 

Thi;  next  day  Dr.  Merrion  told  me  that  about 
ten  days  would  in  all  probability  be  the  extent 
of  Alfred  Jourdain's  sickness  and  life.  Of  course 
he  could  not  s])cak  with  certaintj'  as  to  the  ex- 
act daj'.  The  child  might  even  live  for  three 
weeks  or  a  month.  But  his  case  was  ho))cless, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  for  him  but  to 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


107 


keep  him  as  comfortable  as  possible,  by  means 
of  slight  doses  of  stimulants  and  composing  med- 
icines administered  alternately,  with  short  inter- 
vals. 

Ou  Mondays  and  Fridays  the  ])arents  and 
friends  of  sick  children  were  in  the  habit  of 
visiting  them,  no  visitor  being  admitted  into  the 
wards  on  other  daj's  without  a  governoi"'s  order. 
For  Friday,  therefore,  1  waited  im])aticntly,  hop- 
ing that  Anna  Harney  would  visit  her  grand- 
child. Friday,  however,  came  and  passed  away 
without  Anna  llaruey  appearing  in  Marchioness 
Street.  Perhaps  she  would  come  on  the  follow- 
ing Monday,  and  give  me  an  opportunity  of  ex- 
amining her  as  to  the  history  of  the  tatting  and 
the  wearer  thereof.  Possibly  the  garment  might 
have  been  pureliased  in  a  lot  of  old  clothes ;  but 
however  it  had  come  into  Alfred  Jonrdain's  pos- 
session it  was  a  clew,  by  following  out  which  I 
might  discover  Etty.  Would  Anna  Harney 
come  on  ]\fcnday  ?  I  could  not  remain  quiet, 
and  let  the  day  bring  with  it  its  own  events.  It 
was  necessary  for  me  to  see  Alfred  Jourdain's 
grandmother  forthwith,  so  I  dispatched  by  the 
post  the  following  note  to  Anna  Harney,  4  Lis- 
son  Court,  Neio  Road: 

"Miss  Tree,  the  matron  of  the  Hospital  for 

Sick  Children  in  Marchioness  Street,  wishes  to 

see  Anna  Harney  without  delay.     Perhaps  Anna 

i    Harney  conld  com-j  to  the  hospital  immediately 

i    she  receives  this  note." 

1  I  waited  impatiently  for  the  result  of  this  mis- 
'  sive,  but  it  brought  neither  the  woman  nor  an- 
swer of  any  kind.  When  JNIonday  had  come  to 
I  an  end,  and  I  had  not  seen  the  woman,  I  began 
I  to  suspect  that  Alfred  Jourdain  had  been  left  at 
the  hospital  with  a  false  address.  Occasionally, 
but  by  no  means  often,  we  had  children  left  at 
the  hospital  by  persons  who  never  came  to  see 
them  again,  giving  us  all  the  trouble  of  trans- 
mitting them,  on  their  recovery  from  sickness, 
to  the  parish  authorities,  or,  on  their  death,  to 
the  grave.  Rare  as  such  frauds  were,  they  were 
still  frequent  enough  for  ns  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances to  exercise  precaution  against  them. 
Usually  when  I  felt  uncertain  as  to  the  character 
of  the  "responsible"  friend,  engaging  to  fetch  a 
child  on  being  summoned  to  do  so,  I  caused  a 
messenger  to  visit  the  "responsible"  friend's  ad- 
dress, and  inquire  about  her,  and  report  to  me 
the  result  of  his  inquiries,  before  definitively  ad- 
mitting a  new  applicant  among  my  flock,  and 
dismissing  the  said  "  responsible  friend."  The 
appearance  of  Anna  Harney  was  by  no  means 
prepossessing,  and  would  have  fully  justified  the 
investigation  of  suspicion.  But  the  name  of  the 
recommending  governor  to  the  case  made  inquiry 
out  of  i)lace,  for  even  if  we  had  suspected  a  fraud 
was  about  to  be  perpetrated  on  the  hospital,  the 
Committee  would  rather  have  submitted  to  it  than 
have  refused  an  apiilicant  recommended  by  our 
.  great  benefactress.  Miss  Grace  Temple. 

It  would  be  an  abuse  of  language  to  say  that 
little  Alfred  Jourdain  grew  worse.  He  only 
passed  on  quickly  to  his  end.  Dr.  IMcrrion's 
prognostication  was  right  to  a  day.  On  the  con- 
clusion of  the  tenth  day  after  his  admission  he 
expired.  During  those  ten  days  I  scarcely  closed 
my  eyes  to  sleep.  It  was  my  custom  to  walk  at 
all  hours  of  the  night  noiselessly  about  the  wards 
of  "The  Doctor"  and  "Grace  Temjilo,"  passing 
in  review  the  lines  of  little  cots  containing  my 


patients,  slowly  climbing  the  enormous  staircases 
of  polished  and  dark-brown  oak,  and  pausing  for 
rest  in  the  corners  of  the  cold  marblc-lioored 
halls  or  long  ))assages — to  watcdi  the  Venuses, 
and  Graces,  and  Satyrs  that  variegated  the  vast 
windows  through  whicli  the  moonliglit  streamed, 
or  the  unsteady  street-lamps  sent  a  flickering  il- 
lumination. The  nurses  on  night-duty  were 
therefore  accustomed  to  see  mc  m(n'ing  about  at 
all  hours.  Some  of  them  believed  that  I  never 
slept.  They  had  grounds  for  such  an  opinion 
during  the  last  ten  days  and  nights  of— Case 
1 766 — Tuberculosis. 

Whenever  the  poor  child  slept,  I  left  him. 
Whenever  he  opened  his  eyes,  I  saw  their  lids 
unclose.  Most  of  his  time  was  spent  in  tranquil 
slumber;  and  during  his  brief  periods  of  com- 
parative consciousness  he  took  quietly  and  grate- 
fully the  nourishment  and  medicines  ottered  to 
him — more  often  than  not  thinking  he  received 
them  from  the  hands  of  his  mamma.  When  he 
was  more  completely  roused  he  would  recognize 
me,  thanking  me  for  my  goodness  to  him,  and 
talking  in  his  usual  soft,  plaintive,  weary  fashion 
of  his  dear  dead  mamma,  wlio  was  so  much  pret- 
tier than  "tlie  lady  at  the  theatre."  Morning 
and  night  he  coiled  his  little  feeble,  languid 
limbs  up,  and  (as  on  the  first  night  after  his  ad- 
mission) keeping  a  hold  (at  the  same  time  so  firm 
and  so  frail)  of  my  hand,  repeated  those  old, 
old  prayers.  Such  was  the  life  of  little  Alfred 
Jourdain  until  the  end  came. 

"Oh,  ma'am,"  the  little  fellow  said  to  me  on 
the  evening  of  the  tenth  day,  "  I  can  see  mam- 
ma, and  I  can  see  heaven.  It's  all  lamps  and 
music.     It's  like  a  theatre." 

They  were  his  last  words. 

Ere  another  hour  had  ended  he  knew  more 
than  the  wisest,  and  strongest,  and  most  power- 
ful of  this  world.  He  was  in  a  land  brighter  than 
any  "theatre,"  and  was  surrounded  by  forms 
more  lovely  than  any  "lady  at  the  theatre"  he 
had  seen  during  his  sad  life. 

By  early  dawn  the  next  morning  I  sent  the 
hospital  messenger  to  Lisson  Coui-t  for  Anna 
Harney.  The  man  returned,  as  I  expected  would 
be  the  case,  with  the  announcement  that  no  such 
persons  as  Anna  Harney  and  Robert  Jourdain 
were  known  of  in  that  court.  It  was  as  I  sus- 
pected. The  cliild  had  been  deserted  by  its  un- 
natural "natural  protectors." 

The  day  next  following  Alfred  Jourdain's 
death  was  the  day  for  the  weekly  committee 
meeting.  According  to  my  invariable  custom  I 
jn-esented  myself  ^\■ith  my  register,  my  reports, 
my  receipts,  and  lists  of  articles  required  for  con- 
sumption during  the  next  week.  When  my  ac- 
counts had  been  inspected,  the  death  which  had 
occun'cd  in  one  of  the  wards  on  the  ])revious 
night  was  mentioned  by  the  gentleman  in  the 
cliair,  and  I  drew  his  attention  to  the  fact  stated 
in  my  week's  report,  that  tiie  child's  friends  could 
not  bo  discovered. 

"Then,"  said  the  chairman,  "the  hospitai 
must  bear  the  ex])euse  of  the  funeral  in  the  usual 
way.  The  child's  was  a  bail  case  for  admission ; 
l)ut  still  it  would  have  been  wrong  to  shut  the 
door  on  any  one  bearing  Miss  Grace  Temple's 
introduction.  You  will  give  the  necessary  orders 
about  the  funeral." 

"If,  Sir,"  I  answered  to  the  chairman,  "you 
have  no  objection,  and  if  the  other  gentlemen  of 


108 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


the  Committee  liave  no  objection,  I  should  like 
to  bury  the  poor  child  myself." 

"Surely,  you  can  do  that,  Miss  Tree,"  an- 
swered the  chairman,  opening  his  eyes  slightly 
witli  an  astonishment  that  was  clearly  sympa- 
thized in  by  the  rest  of  the  Committee.  "But 
why  should  you  incur  the  expense  of  his  inter- 
ment ?  It  will  consume  a  considerable  sum  out 
of  your  small  annual  salary.  Don't  let  a  passing 
sentiment  mislead  you.  The  hospital  can  afford 
Buch  an  expense  better  than  you." 

"I  wish  to  bury  the  child,"  I  answered  quick- 
ly, "because  I  love  him  very  dearly." 

And  having  said  these  words,  I  picked  up  my 
papers  and  register,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

Dr.  Jlerrion  was  in  the  committee-room  when 
this  occurred ;  and  about  two  hours  afterward,  ere 
he  left  the  hospital,  he  came  into  my  private 
sitting-room,  and  sj)oke  to  me. 

"  Miss  Tree, "  said  the  doctor,  "  the  Committee 
have  requested  me  to  give  you  this  trifling  ex- 
pression of  their  warm  regard  for  you.  They 
presume  that  the  feelings  which  lead  you  to  take 
upon  yourself  the  charge  of  interring  this  poor 
child  would  be  gratified  by  erecting  a  monument 
to  his  memory.  The  Committee  have  therefore 
asked  me  to  present  you  with  this  purse  contain- 
ing twelve  guineas,  subscribed  by  them  after  you 
left  the  committee-room  this  morning.  They 
•will  be  obliged  if  you  will  expend  the  money  on 
a  memorial  of  the  little  boy,  in  whatever  way  you 
think  best." 

Such  kindness  fairly  broke  me  down.  I  had 
slept  so  little  and  watched  so  much  during  the 
preceding  ten  days  that  my  nerves  were  un- 
steadied.  So  on  Dr.  Merrion  thus  addressing 
me  I  began  to  shed  idle  tears. 

"Oh,  dear  Dr.  Merrion!"  I  said,  "what 
makes  you  all  so  good  to  me  ?" 

"  My  dear  Miss  Tree,"  the  physician  answered, 
shaking  my  hand,  "there  is  not  a  man  of  us  in 
the  habit  of  coming  to  this  hospital,  and  of  ob- 
serving what  goes  on  in  its  wards,  who  does  not 
feel  for  you  as  he  does  for  his  own  sisters." 


CUAPTEE  VII. 


AXOTHER  HOME. 


I  BURIED  Alfred  Jourdain  in  the  Highgate 
Cemetery. 

But  ere  I  took  any  steps  to  placing  a  memo- 
rial over  his  grave,  T  determined  to  satisfy  my- 
self more  completely  as  to  his  birth  and  history. 

When  I  expressed  my  thanks  to  the  Commit- 
tee of  the  hospital  for  their  compliment  and 
their  gift,  I  said  to  the  chairman,  "My  reason 
for  feeling  so  warm  an  interest  in  the  little  boy 
is  that  I  think  1  knew  liis  mother  years  since. 
I  may  be  mistaken,  but  circumstances  which  I 
need  not  mention  have  led  to  this  impression ; 
and  if  the  Committee  have  no  objection,  I  should 
like  to  put  an  advertisement  in  the  daily  papers, 
for  tlic  ])urpose  of  discovering  the  people  who 
placed  tliis  poor  boy  here."  To  this  request  the 
Committee  i-eplied  that  I  might  take  whatever 
steps  I  pleased,  for  they  were  sure  that  I  should 
put  no  advertisement  in  the  papers  that  could 
have  any  injurious  eifect  on  the  hospital. 

On  tins  permission  being  accorded  to  me  I 
caused  the  insertion  in  all  the  principal  London 


papers  of  the  following  advertisement :  "  ^1 1/red 
Jourdain  and  Anna  Harney.  Anna  Harney  who 
jjlaced  Alfred  Jourdain  in  the  Hospital  for  Sick 
Children  is  requested  to  communicate  instantly 
with  the  matron  of  the  hospital.  Anna  Harney 
will  not  be  held  responsible  for  ex])enses  incurred 
for  the  child's  funeral  on  the  IGth  ult.,  but  will 
be  presented  by  the  matron  with  £2  for  replying 
in  a  satisfactory  manner  to  this  advertisement, 
and  £5  more  if  she  gives  the  matron  certain  in- 
formation. Hospital  for  Sick  Children,  Mar- 
chioness Street.'" 

Two  days  after  the  publication  of  this  notice 
a  man  rung  the  hospital  bell  and  requested  to 
see  me.  On  being  introduced  to  me  in  my  pri- 
vate sitting-room,  after  the  door  had  been  closed 
upon  us,  he  said,  "I  come  from  Anna  Harney 
to  know  what  you  want." 

He  was  a  short,  elderh',  unshorn,  unpleasant 
man,  with  nothing  save  a  suspicious  and  sinister 
air  to  distinguish  him  from  the  ordiMxy  herd  of 
the  mechanic  class. 

"I  want  to  see  her,"  I  answered. 

"Won't  I  do  as  well?" 

"No,  I  must  see  her,  and  no  one  else." 

"What  for?" 

"I  have  reason  to  think  that  the  child  Alfred 
Jourdain  was  not  the  son  of  a  shoemaker  in  Lis- 
son  Court,  and  I  desire  to  satisfy  myself  on  the 
subject  of  his  parentage." 

"Who  do  you  think  he  was ?" 

"That  question,"  was  my  reply,  "I  must  de- 
cline to  answer." 

"Umph!  you're  short,  ma'am." 

"  I  am,  to  questions  that  are  out  of  place." 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  about  his  birth 
for?" 

"That  question  I  must  also  decline  answer- 
ing.    Have  you  any  fiU'ther  questions  to  put?" 

The  man  was  silent  for  a  minute,  during  which 
time  he  bit  a  small  piece  of  oat  straw  he  had  in 
his  hand.  He  seemed  as  if  he  were  employed 
in  working  out  some  calculations.  The  residt 
of  his  meditation  was  that  he  said,  abruptly, 

"If  you'll  give  me  the  two  pounds  I'll  take 
you  to  Anna  Harney." 

"If  I  give  you  the  mone;-,  what  security  will 
you  give  me  that  you'll  do  the  work  I  re- 
quire?" 

"That's  a  fair  question.  Tlie  man  will  have 
to  get  up  early  who  takes  you  in." 

"He  will,"  I  answered,  quietly  accepting  the 
compliment. 

"If  I  take  you  to  Anna  Harney — into  the 
room  where  she  lives,  and  where  you  may  see 
her,  and  then  take  you  back  again  here  safe  and 
sound — will  you  give  me  £2  ?" 

"Yes,  I  will,"  I  answered  after  half-a-min- 
ute's  consideration. 

"That's  £2  for  myself;  it'll  make  no  differ- 
ence to  wliat  you  have  to  give  her,"  he  put  in, 
like  a  dealer  driving  a  hard  bargain. 

"  Exactly.  Take  me  to  Anna  Harney  and  I'll 
give  her  £2  for  our  interview.  Tlicn  if  you  bring 
me  l)ack  here  safe,  and  without  having  under- 
gone impro])cr  trcatmeiit  of  any  kind,  I'll  con- 
duct you  into  this  room,  give  you  £2,  and  then 
bid  you  'good-evening.'" 

"  Why  not  give  me  the  money  at  the  door  of 
the  hospital  ?" 

"Because  I  sha'n't  have  it  in  my  pocket.  I 
shall  on  leaving  this  place  have  in  m}'  j)urse  "uly 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


109 


the  two  pounds  for  Anna  Harney.  I  shall  take 
no  more  money  about  with  mc." 

"While  you  are  my  comjianion,  you  mean." 

"Exactly,  that  is  what  I  mean,"  I  replied, 
quietly. 

"You  think  I'd  rob  you?" 

"  I  think  it  better  not  to  give  you  any  tempta- 
tion to  do  so." 

"I'll  ti-ust  you,  ma'am.  I  always  trust  them 
as  can  take  care  for  theirselves.  It's  a  bargain. 
When  would  you  like  to  go?" 

"How  iar  is  it?" 

"About  a  mile  and  a  half." 

"Then  I  will  meet  you  in  front  of  the  hospital 
in  the  course  of  half  an  hour,  if  you'll  go  outside 
and  wait  for  me." 

Having  ascertained  that  this  arrangement  was 
acceptable  to  my  visitor  I  dismissed  him  for  the 
space  of  thirty  minutes  from  attendance  on  me. 

At  the  expiration  of  that  time  I  left  the  hos- 
pital on  foot,  and  found  my  companion  imder  a 
gas-lamp  at  the  corner  of  the  street.  It  was  al- 
ready almost  as  dark  as  it  would  be  in  the  course 
of  the  night,  and  a  thin,  cold,  drizzling  rain  fell 
on  the  slippery  pavement. 

"Sha'n't  we  ride?"  asked  the  man. 

"No,"  I  answered,  "I  prefer  walking." 

"  It's  wettish  for  a  lady,"  he  rejoined. 

"I  have  thick  boots  and  an  umbrella,"  -was 
my  reply.  And  then  I  added,  "Lead  on,  I'll 
follow  you." 

The  man  obeyed  me,  and  turning  across  South- 
ampton Street  led  me  over  Russell  and  Gordon 
Squares  in  the  direction  of  Tottenham  Court 
Eoad.  My  slight  knowledge  of  town  soon  failed 
to  inform  me  where  I  was;  but  I  have  no  hesi- 
tation in  saying  that  we  penetrated  to  the  west 
of  Tottenham  Court  Road,  by  a  street  near  Fitz- 
roy  Square.  We  then  passed  tln-ough  an  intri- 
cate series  of  courts,  and  back  streets,  and  pas- 
sages, till  I  could  no  more  have  set  myself  in  the 
right  direction  for  Marchioness  Street  without 
the  aid  of  a  magnetic  needle  than  I  could  have 
commanded  the  British  fleet.  Every  fifty  yards 
as  we  progressed  the  man  looked  over  his  shoul- 
der at  me,  and  every  time  he  did  so  I  thought 
he  looked  more  ill-favored  than  ever.  I  began 
to  be  afraid ;  but  as  there  was  no  possibility  of 
drawing  back  from  my  undertaking,  courage  did 
not  desert  me.  My  mind  was  too  ill  at  ease  for 
me  to  take  good  note  of  the  places  through  which 
we  passed ;  but  dark  as  it  was,  and  agitated  as  I 
was,  I  noticed  that  the  streets  were  poorer,  and 
dirtier,  and  the  foot-passengers  were  humbler 
and  more  toil-worn  in  appearance,  every  two 
hundred  yards  we  went.  Once,  indeed,  we 
emerged  from  obscure  and  filthy  haunts,  and 
crossed  over  a  broad  and  well-lighted  street,  and 
a  magnificent  square  full  of  mansions  ;  but  soon 
we  were  again  threading  our  way  through  noi- 
some alleys,  stumbling  over  open  drains,  and  run- 
ning against  wretclied,  ragged  children,  squall- 
ing and  quarreling  in  the  gutters. 

With  my  present  knowledge  of  town,  I  should 
say  that  the  man  had  led  me  into  one  of  the  very 
lowest  and  most  disreputable  districts  of  Maryle- 
bone,  when  he  stopped  short  before  a  marine 
store-keeper's  open  shop  in  a  narrow  lane,  and 
said,  "  Here  we  are.  We're  just  at  the  place. 
You  mayn't  be  frightened?" 

"  I  am  not  frightened,"  I  answered. 

"  Well,  I  only  thought  I'd  tell  you  not  to  be. 


for  I'm  going  tu  t;i];('  you  up  a  queer-looking 
yard.     Are  yuu  ready?" 

"  Quite." 

Without  another  word  the  man  turned  sharp 
to  his  riglit,  and  gropped  his  way  quickly  up, 
what  for  the  next  minute  seemed  to  me  an  in- 
terminable passage.  Two  or  three  hundred  yards 
at  least  this  passage  was  in  length,  and  liere  and 
there  for  twenty  yards  or  more  it  was  covered 
over  by  the  houses  on  either  side.  At  these 
places  it  seemed  like  a  subterranean  i)assage. 
There  was  a  lamp  here  and  there  for  the  con- 
venience of  the  police  at  the  entrance  of  the  alley ; 
but  ere  we  stopped  there  was  no  light  before  us, 
and  the  last  one  behind  us  was  at  least  fifty  yards 
distant.  Three  times  we  encountered  people  de- 
scending this  passage ;  when,  so  narrow  was  the 
way,  I  had  to  turn  sideways,  and  push  myself 
close  up  against  the  wall,  in  order  to  make  room 
for  the  persons  meeting  us. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  man,  pausing  at 
the  end  of  the  passage.  "  Thei'e's  nothing  to 
frighten  you  to-night.  Only  sometimes  there's 
a  row  with  the  neighbors  fighting  here ;  and  when 
there's  a  row  in  Cleaver's  Rents,  why  it's  a  queer 
place  for  a  lady." 

As  he  spoke  he  pushed  open  a  door,  and  led 
me  into  a  house. 

There  was  no  light  either  in  the  entrance  or 
on  the  staircase ;  and  the  man  did  not  appear  to 
have  any  intention  of  calling  for  one. 

Up  two  flights  of  a  narrow  irregular  staircase 
I  followed  him  in  the  dark,  regulating  my  pace 
by  the  sound  of  his  steps,  when  he  opened  a 
door  which  admitted  us  to  Anna  Harney's  dwell- 
ing. 

The  room  was  sufficiently  large  for  a  poor 
man's  habitation ;  but  in  the  fetid  atmosphere, 
the  dying  cinder  fire,  the  broken  table,  the  dirty 
mattress  and  blankets  on  the  floor  in  one  corner 
of  the  room,  the  three  rickety  chairs,  and  the 
wick  candle  burning  in  a  dim  flame  in  a  tin 
socket,  it  had  unmistakable  signs  of  the  povei'ty 
and  extreme  squalor  in  which  its  inhabitant  or- 
dinarily dwelt. 

"Oh,  you've  brought  the  lady?"  said  the  wo- 
man I  wanted  to  sec,  rising  from  one  of  the 
rickety  chairs  as  I  entered. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  "  vou  needn't  fear  her." 

"  All  right." 

This  interchange  of  words  having  taken  place, 
Anna  Harney  with  more  civility  of  manner  than 
I  had  anticipated  receiving  from  her,  said,  "This 
is  an  awkward  neighborhood  for  you  to  come  to, 
ma'am.  I  would  have  waited  on  you,  only  poor 
people  must  be  cautious  sometimes.  But  now 
that  you  see  my  place,  at  least  you  don't  want  to 
ask  me  why  I  didn't  come  for  the  child.  Be 
seated,  ma'am." 

"First,  Mrs.  Harney,"  I  said,  sitting  down  on 
one  of  the  chairs,  "let  me  pay  you  £2  for  see- 
ing me.  If  you  will  answer  my  questions  fully 
and  frankly,  and  to  the  best  of  your  ability,  I  will 
give  your  friend  £5  for  you  when  he  has  conduct- 
ed me  back  to  Marchioness  Street." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  the  woman  said,  re- 
spectfully, taking  up  the  two  sovereigns  which  I 
laid  on  the  table. 

"I'll  be  on  the  staircase  if  you  want  me,"  ob- 
served the  man',  leaving  the  room. 

As  soon  as  he  had  left  us,  I  addressed  the  wo- 
man, going  straight  to  the  business  in  hand. 


no 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


"I  want  to  learn  8ome  particulars  about  the 
child  you  left  at  the  hospital.  In  the  lirst  place, 
was  his  name  Alfred  Jourdain?" 

"That  was  the  name  he  went  b}',  ma'am." 

"  Ay,  but  don't  evade  me.  Was  that  his  right 
name?" 

■'  I  never  heard  him  called  by  any  other.  I 
have  heard  his  mother  call  him  by  that  name, 
and  she  told  me  his  father's  name  was  Joui-- 
dain." 

"What  was  the  mother's  name?'' 

''Ann  Jourdain.  While  she  lodged  with  me 
at  least." 

'•  She  was  your  lodger.  Are  you  not  then  the 
child's  grandmother  ?" 

"No,  he  was  no  relation  to  me  whatever." 

"Where  did  Ann  Jourdain  lodge  with  you?" 

"In  Grafton  Street.  I  had  a  house  there  up 
to  half  a  year  since.  I  have  dropped  in  the 
world.  Poor  people  sometimes  drop  very  fast. 
I  had  several  young  persons  lodging  with  me." 

"  Ladies  ?  young  women  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.     All  of  them." 

"  I  need  not  ask  you  any  thing  about  the  char- 
acter of  your  lodgers,  I  sujjpose  ?" 

"You'd  better  not,  ma'am,"  answered  the 
woman,  huskily,  a  flush  crossing  her  face.  "I 
could  not  say  any  thing  about  them  you'd  like  to 
hear." 

"Thank  you,  I  understand  you.  How  long 
was  Ann  Jourdain  your  lodger?" 

"  About  a  year  and  three  months." 

' '  Was  the  child  an  inmate  of  your  house  all 
that  time  ?" 

"No,  he  was  out  somewhere  (I  don't  know 
where)  at  nurse.  He  came  to  mine  about  a  fort- 
night before  his  mothef  died." 

"What!  she  died!" 

"Yes,  she  died  just  three  months  before  I  left 
Grafton  Street." 

"And  you  left  Grafton  Street  about  six 
months  since  ?" 

"About  that  time." 

"Then  Ann  Jourdain  died  ninth  months 
since?" 

"About  that  time,  and  she  was  buried  at 
Highgate  by  the  lodgei-s.  They  subscribed  to 
bury  her." 

"How  long  had  she  lodged  with  you?" 

"  About  a  year — rather  more  than  a  year. 
You  may  say  a  year  and  tlu'ce  months." 

"She  gained  her  living  in  the  same  way  as 
the  other  young  persons  ?" 

The  woman  paused,  and  flushed  again,  as  she 
answered  by  repeating  my  words.  "Yes,  she 
gained  her  living  in  the  same  way  as  the  other 
young  jiersons." 

"Tell  me  what  you  know  about  her." 

"SJie  was  quite  a  stranger  to  me  when  she 
came  and  took  lodgings  at  my  house.  She 
knocked  at  the  door  just  as  any  other  stranger 
might,  and  asked  if  I  had  rooms  to  let.  She 
saw  the  vacant  rooms  and  took  them  at  once, 
having  the  box  containing  her  things  brought 
in,  at  once  and  forthwilh,  from  a  cab  into  the 
house.  I  asked  where  she  came  from,  but  she 
wouldn't  tell  me.  And  as  she  ]iaid  a  week's 
rent  in  advance  I  didn't  ask  anv  more  questions. 
After  she  had  been  with  me  about  nine  months 
she  fell  ill,  and  though  slie  kept?  about  she  was 
never  herself  again  till  she  died.  When  she 
couldn't  any  longer  afford  to  have  the  child  out 


at  nurse,  she  asked  me  to  let  him  join  her  in 
Grafton  Street.  And  I  agreed  So  the  child 
came ;  but  she  was  taken  worse  suddenly,  and 
died  soon  after  he  came." 

' '  What  was  she  like  ?  Describe  her  to 
me." 

"She  was  tall,  and  thin,  and  very  delicate, 
not  at  all  like  a  common  girl.  She  had  dark- 
blue  eyes,  and  the  finest  lot  of  hair  I  ever  saw 
on  a  girl's  head.  It  was  the  nearest  like  polish- 
ed gold  to  look  at  of  any  hair  I  ever  saw." 

I  put  my  hand  before  my  face  as  if  I  were 
considering. 

"  Now,  Anna  Harney,  another  point,"  I  re- 
sumed, when  I  had  recovered  my  self-possession. 
"  When  you  left  Alfred  Jourdain  at  the  hospital 
he  wore  among  other  articles  of  clothing  a  linen 
shirt." 

"  He  had  a  linen  shirt,  with  edging  on  the  lap- 
pets." 

' '  Can  you  tell  me  any  thing  about  that  shirt, 
where  it  came  from?" 

"The  child  had  it  on  when  he  came  to  Graf- 
ton Street.  He  had  a  set  of  fine  shirts,  and  sev- 
eral other  delicate  things." 

"  What  has  become  of  them  ?" 

The  woman  paused  again  and  flushed  as  she 
had  done  twice  before.  "  I  parted  with  them," 
at  length  she  answered. 

"Sold  them?" 

"Pawned  some  and  sold  others." 

I  was  silent  for  a  minute. 

"Ann  Jourdain  was  in  my  debt  when  she 
died  many  pounds,"  continued  the  woman,  jus- 
tifying herself  in  an  angr}'-  tone;  "so  I  took 
what  she  left  behind  her.  I  intended  to  do  well 
by  the  child,  for  he  seemed  a  sharp  little  man, 
and  promised  to  be  useful.  But  he  fell  oft'  all 
of  a  sudden." 

"  Wiiat  other  things  did  Ann  Jourdain  leave 
behind  her?" 

"  Nothing  of  any  value." 

"  You  have  nothing  left  of  them,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  I  have  one  thing.  I  should  have  ]jart- 
ed  with  that  too,  only  I  couldn't  find  any  body 
to  give  a  shilling  for  it.  It's  a  brass  locket,  with 
a  picture  on  each  side." 

"Let  me  see  it." 

The  woman  rose  and  went  to  her  bed  in  the 
corner  of  the  room,  and  having  rummaged  be- 
hind the  mattress  returned  with  a  small  oblong 
deal  box  in  her  hand.  This  box  she  opened 
with  a  key,  and  took  from  amidst  the  worthless 
rubbish  it  contained  the  locket  of  which  she  had 
spoken.  It  was  a  child's  trinket,  just  such  an 
article  as  might  be  purchased  for  2d.  any  day  in 
a  toy-shop.  A  brass  rim  with  a  ring  attached, 
two  i)ieces  of  glass,  and  a  little  picture  beliind 
each  glass,  were  the  conijjonent  parts  of  the  or- 
nament. 

"I  should  like  to  have  this,"  I  said,  quietly. 

"What,  ma'am,  would  you  have  me  .sc//  it  to 
you,  seeing  it  isn't  my  own  ?"  observed  the  wo- 
man, sharjily,  referring,  as  I  could  well  see,  to 
tlie  expression  which  crossed  my  face  when  she 
confessed  she  had  sold  the  cliild's  clothing. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings." 

"Pooh!"  she  retorted,  bitterly,  "I  haven't 
any  feelings." 

"If  you  will  let  me  take  away  this  trinket,"  I 
said,  "  I'll  give  you  £5  for  it." 

"You  may  take  it." 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


in 


"Did  Anil  Jourdaiii  wear  this  round  liur 
neck?" 

"  Yes,  she  did.  I  took  it  off  her  when  she 
was  dead.  In  iier  hist  iUness  she  was  contin- 
ually looking  at  it,  holdin.'-i;  it  before  her  eyes. 
And  the  more  she  looked  at  it  tiie  more  she 
cried.  There  now  you  know  all  about  Ann 
Joiirdain  that  I  can  tell  you.  So  no  more  ques- 
tions, ma'am.'' 

She  said  this  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone, 
angrily  and  even  tiercel}'. 

"  I  wish  to  say  nothing  more  about  Ann  Jour- 
dain,"  I  answered,  quietly.  "I  will  now  leave 
j'ou  and  go  home.  I  will  give  the  man  £10  for 
you,  £.">  in  payment  for  your  information,  and 
£5  for  the  trinket.  You  will  then,  with  the  two 
pounds  I  have  already  given  you,  have  £12. 
Your  husband  (if  I  may  call  the  man  so)  will 
have  £2.  Now  with  that  sum  can't  you  manage 
to  move  out  of  this  wretched  place,  and  fix  your- 
selves in  some  reputable  way  of  life  ?  Do  try  to 
do  so,  Anna  Harney  !" 

"Don't  you  dare  to  come  Anna  Harneying 
or  Anna  Carneying  me!"  exclaimed  the  woman, 
bursting  into  a  fury  of  rage.  "What  do  you 
mean  by  preaching  to  me  in  that  sanctimonious 
way—" 

She  was  still  speaking  with  vociferous  violence, 
when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  the  man 
re-entered.  "  Hold  hard,  Anna!  Tut,  old  lass," 
he  said,  "  don't  spoil  the  game  now.  Come, 
cohie,  ma'am,  be  off — make  haste,  I'll  follow!" 

The  tone,  which  might  almost  be  called  one 
of  alarm,  in  which  the  man  spoke,  assured  me 
that  I  had  better  obey  him  jiromptly.  So  I  left 
the  room  without  another  word,  he  following 
me,  and  locking  the  door  on  the  outside.  Scarce- 
ly had  he  succeeded  in  achieving  this  when  the 
enraged  woman  was  heard  within,  kicking  the 
door  and  shaking  the  lock  with  all  her  might, 
and  making  the  house  resound  with  her  cries. 

"Ah,  ma'am,"  said  the  man,  when  we  had 
quitted  the  house,  and  hurried  down  the  long 
sewer  of  a  passage,  and  stood  once  more  in  the 
narrow  lane  on  which  the  marine-store  shop 
opened,  "you  shouldn't  have  given  her  any  ad- 
vice! She  has  her  good  points,  has  Anna;  but 
she  can't  stand  advice.  It  goads  her  so,  and 
drives  her  furious.  It's  a  mercy  she  didn't  strike 
you.  You  see  it's  her  pride  is  cut,  ma'am ;  for 
advice  reminds  of  what  she  once  was.  You 
wovxldn't  think  it,  but  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
clergyman,  and  I  was  once  a  master  tradesman 
in  Oxford  Street.     But  we've  dropped." 

Dropped !  Goodness,  Heavens,  they  had 
dropjied ! 

What  a  relief  it  was  to  be  once  more  in  the 
streets,  however  humble  and  dark  and  narrow! 
At  least  they  were  full  of  human  figures  passing 
to  and  fro,  and  human  voices.  Humble  and 
wretched  though  they  might  be,  I  felt  protection 
in  the  foot-passengers  who  jostled  against  me. 
The  flaring  gas-lamps,  too,  were  cheerful.  Even 
the  gin-palaces  at  the  street-corners  appeared  to 
have  happiness  in  them.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  had  spent  an  age  instead  of  half  an  hour  in  the 
dismal,  oppressive  horrors  of  Cleaver's  Rents. 
The  carriages  were  whirling  about  the  streets ; 
and  though  the  rain  fell  down  fast  on  the  sloppy 
pavement,  I  walked  on  with  a  sense  of  refresh- 
ment. 

Having  rc-cntercd  the  hospital  in  iMarchion- 


css  Street,  I  dismissed  my  servant  with  his  jjrom- 
ised  reward,  and  then,  on  looking  on  the  clock 
in  the  hall  of  "Grace  Temple,"  I  found,  to  my 
surprise,  that  it  was  still  only  seven  o'clock. 

Retiring  to  my  bedroom  I  shut  myself  in,  and 
recalled  all  I  lunl  seen,  and  done,  and  heard  with- 
in tlic  last  two  iiours. 

Tiicu  the  reaction  came  upon  me.  Then  the 
transient  gladness  caused  by  my  escape  from  the 
gloomy  court,  and  my  rapid  passage  home  through 
I  lie  streets,  passed  away,  and  all  the  dreadful  sig- 
nificance of  the  discovery  I  had  Just  made  rolled 
over.  I  took  the  locket  from  my  pocket.  How 
well  I  remembered  that  trinket  which  my  dear 
grandfather  had  given  to  Etty  on  her  birthday, 
when  she  was  a  little  thing  only  six  years  old ! 
The  picture  on  one  side  was  a  portrait  of  myself, 
a  profile  cut  out  in  black  paper,  and  pasted  on 
white.  On  the  other  side  was  her  prohle  in  a 
similar  style  of  art.  Under  the  one  picture,  on 
the  white  margin,  was  written  "Tibby,"  and 
under  the  other  "  Etty."  She  used  to  wear  that 
worthless  m  vke-believe  ornament  as  a  child,  and 
she  had  worn  it  when  on  her  death-bed,  "  look- 
ing at  it,  and  crying  the  more  she  looked  at  it." 

Had  it  indeed  come  to  this?  Was  this  the 
end  of  my  long-cherished  hope?  the  termina- 
tion of  my  gladdening  confidence  ?  She  would 
never  come  home  now !  Iler  home  was  not  of 
this  world.  It  was  elsewhere.  She  had  gone 
to  it  nine  months  before. 

Again  and  again  that  night  I  heard  my  dear 
grandfather's  solemn  and  pathetic  injunction, 
"Whatever  happens  to  you  in  life,  whatever 
clouds  may  rise  over  you,  whatever  temptations 
you  may  have  to  resist,  let  nothing  separate  you 
from  Etty.  Cling  to  her;  make  her  cling  to 
you.  Make  every  allowance  for  her.  Never 
quarrel  with  her,  whatever  she  may  do.  I  think 
of  your  happiness  more  than  hers  when  I  say 
this.  To  quarrel  with  one's  own  blood  is  to  cut 
through  one's  own  heart.     I  know  it." 

"Dear,  dear  grandfather,"  I  exclaimed,  fall- 
ing on  my  knees,  "I  tried  to  cling  to  Etty ;  in- 
deed I  did !" 

Oh  what  ivould  I  not  have  given  to  have  known 
then  that  which  I  afterward  learned,  that  Klty  was 
not  dead,  and  that  I  had  onlij  been  induced  to  think 
her  so  hij  a  benevolent  artijice  practiced  upon  me 
b)j  unknown  friends  ! 


CHAPTER  Vm. 
etty's   mournees. 

• 

I  PUT  a  black  ribbon  through  Etty's  locket, 
and  put  the  ribbon  over  my  neck ;  but  I  did  not 
know  for  many  a  day  the  full  weight  of  the  sor- 
row that  had  come  to  me,  together  with  the  ac- 
quisition of  the  trinket.  I  had  no  need  to  put 
on  mourning  for  Etty,  for  I  had  always  worn 
black  stuff  and  crape  from  the  night  of  my  fly- 
ing fronj  Laughton.  "I  will  dress  myself  in 
black  till  Etty  comes  home,"  I  had  then  said ; 
and  now  I  altered  the  words  of  my  resolution 
to,  "I  will  wear  black  forever,  because  Etty  has 
gone  home."  I  went  to  the  jiorter  of  the  north 
gate  of  Gray's  Inn,  and  said  to  him,  '-There 
will  never  be  a  lettgr  for  me  now;  the  friend  I 
have  so  long  hoped  would  write  to  me  is  dead- 


112 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


She  is  with  your  little  one  in  heaven."  Spirit 
of  love,  tliiit  dwelt  in  the  breast  of  tliat  rude, 
lowly,  uiitaii:;lit  man,  tell  with  lit  words  how  he 
sorrowed  when  I  was  in  sorrow !  The  next  time 
I  saw  him  sitting  at  his  gate  he  was  wearing  the 
same  blaek  fold  on  his  hat  with  which  years  be- 
fore he  had  given  expression  to  his  regret  for 
"  the  little  'un  1" 

I  wrote  to  JNIrs.  Gurley,  saying,  "Etty  is  no 
more ;  she  died  several  months  ago,  and  I  am 
mourning  for  her.  Write  to  me,  dear  Mrs.  Gur- 
ley. I  am  the  matron  of  the  Hospital  for  Siek 
Children  in  Marchioness  Street.  It  was  foolish 
of  me  not  to  have  given  you  my  right  address 
before.  But  all  is  altered  now ;  her  shame  and 
sufferings  have  ended,  and  my  love  is  stronger 
for  her  than  ever."  / 

There  still  remained  another  duty  for  me  to 
perform  to'  dear  Etty,  and  I  did  it  without  de- 
lay. I  did  not  know  in  what  part  of  the  High- 
gate  burial-ground  she  had  been  interred  by  her 
fellow-lodgers ;  but  I  ascertained  from  the  keep- 
er of  the  cemetery  books  that  no  memorial  had 
been  erected  to  her  memory.  So  I  selected  a 
spot  —  a  quiet  corner  on  the  top  of  the  hill, 
screened  on  three  sides  by  laurel,  and  fir,  and 
copper-beech,  and  commanding  in  the  front  a 
view  of  the  wide  sweep  of  land  under  the  foot 
of  Highgate  Hill,  and  a  view  of  the  mighty  city 
where  sin  and  virtue  walk  hand  in  hand — and 
there  I  erected  a  monumental  stone  bearing  this 
inscription : 

In  Jlemoiy  of 

ETTY   TREE, 

and  of 

All  who  loved  her  and  are  no  more, 

This  Stone 

is  erected  by 

TlUUY    Teee. 

I  penned  this  inscription  thinking  of  dear  Et- 
ty's  child  and  her  fellow-lodgers,  who  had  sub- 
scribed to  meet  the  expenses  of  her  funeral. 
They  were  in  my  mind  when  I  wrote  the  line 
"All  who  loved  her  and  are  no  more." 

Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  Etty  had  left  a  con- 
siderable sum  of  money  behind  her,  lying  at  the 
Laugliton  Bank.  So  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Gurley,  re- 
questing him  to  send  me  a  check  for  that  amount, 
which  should  be  payable  to  me  at  the  hands  of 
the  London  correspondents  of  the  Laughton 
Bank.  When  the  check  arrived  it  was  for  no 
less  a  sum  than  £400 ;  and  I  took  it  to  Lombard 
Street  and  obtained  four  notes  on  the  Bank  of 
England  for  £100  each ;  and  these  notes,  hav- 
ing inclosed  them  in  a  letter,  I  dropped  one  night 
during  a  solitary  ramble  through  the  sleeping 
hospital  into  the  contribution-box,  that  stood  in 
the  marble-floored  hall  of  "  Grace  Temple,"  and 
had  an  aperture  through  the  wall  of  the  hospital 
into  Marchioness  Street ;  and  there  the  notes 
were  found  five  days  afterward,  to  the  great  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  of  the  Committee.  I  felt  sat- 
isfied that  Etty,  if  she  could  have  expressed  a 
feeling  on  the  subject,  would  have  approved  of 
that  disposal  of  her  property. 

I  tried  to  be  brave  and  calm,  and  persistent 
in  toil ;  but  I  could  not  succeed.  Dr.  Merrion 
urged — indeed  he  cntreateil — me  to  leave  Lon- 
don for  a  few  months ;  but  I  could  not  at  first 
consent  to  do  so.     My  hoi^e  of  so  many  years' 


silent  growth  was  cut  through  at  the  roots,  and 
had  suddenly  fallen  withered  and  sajilcss ;  and 
with  the  death  of  my  hope  I  experienced  a  loss 
of  jiowcr — i)ower  of  mind,  and  power  of  body, 
and  sjjiritual  ]Jower — a  loss  causing  me  to  thiiik 
seriously  that  ere  another  year  the  hospital  would 
require  a  new  matron. 

One  day,  when  I  was  sitting  at  this  period  of 
my  life  in  a  dull,  despondent  mood,  a  tap  was 
made  at  my  door,  and  a  lady  entered.  At  first 
I  did  not  know  her,  and  yet  a  feeling  ran  through 
me  that  I  ought  to  know  her.  In  another  minute 
we  were  in  each  other's  arms.  "Oh,  dear,  dear, 
dear  Mrs.  Gurley!"  I  cried,  beating  her  neck 
with  my  hands  and  kissing  her,  "I  never  thought 
'to  see  you  again.  But,  dear,  dear  friend,  who 
are  you  in  mourning  for?"  "God  bless  you, 
dear,"  she  answered,  "I  couldn't  help  it.  You 
mayn't  be  ofi'ended  with  me,  though  I  am  not  of 
blood  with  j'ou,  and  though  it  has  set  all  Laugh- 
ton  talking.  But  I  couldn't  hear  that  poor  dear 
Etty  was  no  more  without  putting  on  black  for 
her ;  and  when  I  did  know  your  address  I 
couldn't  keep  happy  without  coming  up  to  Lon- 
don to  see  you.  So  Gurley,  dear  man,  said, 
'Well,  then,  to  make  you  easy,  I'll  take  you 
up  for  a  week  to  see  our  cousin  Thatcher  in  Ox- 
ford Street.'  And  so,  dear,  we're  in  Oxford 
Street.  You  know  it's  quite  an  easy  journey 
down  to  Laughton  now,  for  we  have  fifty  miles 
of  railroad  open."  The  next  day  Mr.  Gurley 
came  to  call  on  me ;  and  while  he  and  his  wife 
were  in  London  she  spent  several  hours  of  each 
day  with  me.  We  went  to  Highgate,  and  I 
showed  her  the  memorial  I  had  just  erected  to 
my  dear  sister;  and  we  talked  of  her  frequently 
and  much,  but  never  of  her  later  life. 

The  sight  of  the  Gurleys,  so  bright  and  so  pros- 
perous, and  so  little  altered  by  time,  greatly  re- 
vived me ;  and  after  their  departure  I  w'ent  to 
Clapton  and  staid  a  month  with  Mrs.  Monk ; 
after  which  recreation  I  found  myself  quite 
strong  again  and  able  to  resume  my  hospital 
duties. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


AN     OLD     FRIEND. 


The  months  passed  on ;  and  with  the  aid  of 
my  old,  familiar,  vulgar  comforter,  "duty,"  I 
still  found  much  that  was  worth  living  for. 
When  I  thought  of  dying  (and  that  is  a  subject 
on  which  every  one  ought  to  reflect — but  health- 
ily, and  in  no  mere  selfish  spirit),  I  always  term- 
inated my  meditations  with  I'ecalling  Dr.  Mer- 
rion and  JNIrs.  IMonk,  and  one  or  two  other  kind 
friends,  to  part  from  wliom  forever  would  have 
])ained  me  greatly.  For  me,  therefore,  to  have 
been  altogetlier  unhnjipy  would  have  been  wick- 
edness. 

Spring,  and  summer,  and  autumn  came  again. 
It  was  October,  just  ten  years  after  my  midnight 
flight  from  Laughton,  and  just  eleven  months 
since  I  had  ascertained  the  fact  of  my  dear  sis- 
ter's death.  The  previous  summer  had  seen  me 
complete  my  thirty-sixth  year;  and  I  bore  about 
me  more  signs  of  advancing  years — or,  if  such 
an  exjjression  be  preferable,  of  departed  youth — ■ 
than  usually  marks  that  age. 

Tlie  tender  mercies  of  our  Heavenly  Father 
are  innumerable.     In  place  of  the  hope  that 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


113 


Etty  would  return  to  my  arms — the  liope  wliicli 
had  sustained  me  in  so  iminy  trials,  and  had  at 
lengtli  proved  fallacious — tiiere  was  f^iven  to  me 
a  joyful  confidence  that  her  evil  beiiavior  was 
forgiven  by  the  Father  in  consideration  of  the 
Divine  atonement.  It  is  needless,  it  would  be 
impossible,  to  show  that  this  conlidence  was 
founded  on  any  logical  data — such  as  learned 
schoolmen  would  require.  The  Divine  mercy, 
which  gave  me  faith  in  the  promises  of  religion, 
planted  that  confidence  in  me,  and  cherished  it. 
It  had  no  other  source,  no  otlier  su])port.  Oli, 
you  cold,  fearless  critics  of  tlic  traditions  that 
have  come  down  to  us — you  who  ask  us  to  throw 
aside  this  doctrine  as  a  fantastic  imj)Ositi()n,  and 
that  doctrine  as  a  scientific  error,  and  a  tliird 
doctrine  as  based  on  indisputable  anachronism, 
mitil,  robbed  of  its  sacred  clothing  and  familiar 
form,  the  Christian  idea,  of  which  you  speak  so 
loudly,  is  impalpable  to  us,  who  are  only  the 
weaklings  of  the  earth — what  could  you  have 
given  me  ?  what  can  you  give  any  jioor  woman, 
struggling  with  sin  and  affliction,  in  exchange 
fjr  such  confidence?  I  don't  presume  to  judge 
you.  I  daren't  say  that  you  are  wrong,  for  God 
allows  you  to  do  as  you  do  with  noble  intellect, 
which  is  his  especial  gift.  But,  I  ])ray  you,  keep 
your  labors  unknown  to  us  simple  peojile.  Write 
your  profound  treatises  in  Greek  or  Hebrew,  so 
that  if  by  chance  they  fall  in  our  way  we  may 
understand  not  a  word  of  them.  Let  ns  bo  poor 
weaklings  !  Leave  us  the  darkness  in  which  we 
can  see  clearly  to  the  end,  and  give  us  not  tlie 
light  that  will  rob  us  of  sight ! 

It  was  October ;  and  I  went  to  Ilighgate  for 
a  walk  in  the  garden  of  the  dead.  On  Hearing 
th_'  spot  where  Etty's  memorial  stood,  I  turned 
and  surveyed  the  valley  at  my  feet,  and  London 
in  the  distance,  covered  with  a  blue  mist,  into 
which  the  sun  was  Hinging  a  warmth  of  gold. 
As,  standing  on  the  ground  where  her  body  lay 


at  rest,  I  looked  upon  the  glorious  city,  in  whose 
dark  ways  sh  ■  luul  errcil  and  fallen,  I  never  f  it 
a  sweeter  and  fuller  cimlidence  that  human  life, 
with  all  its  perplexities,  tends  to  everlasting  good. 

Full  of  that  joyful  belief  I  turned  to  look  at 
Etty's  nvemorial,  when  I  saw  a  person  stationed 
by  its  side,  and  gazing  at  me  with  anxious  ten- 
derness. Oh,  how  well  I  remembered  him,  not- 
withstanding the  alterations  of  nearly  twelve 
years !  That  form  so  grand  and  royal !  that 
face  so  commanding,  and  yet  so  childlike  !  those 
large  dark  eyes,  so  full  of  compassion !  those 
sacred  lips,  that  knew  no  guile  ! 

I  took  his  outstretched  hands,  and  called  him 
"Julian — dear  Julian,"  for  an  instant  forgetting 
the  wide  distance  of  time  since  we  met. 

And  he  saiJ,  in  tones,  soft,  solemn,  unuttera- 
bly sweet,  "Tibby,  love  for  her  who  is  in  heaven 
has  led  us  to  this  spot.  She  has  brought  us  to- 
gether. Let  us  be  friends  again,  as  we  were  in 
our  happy  childhood.     Let  us  be  old  friends." 

We  Isft  the  ground  marked  by  Etty's  memo- 
rial, and  walked  down  the  hill  together  ;  and 
together  we  walked  back  into  London. 

He  left  me  in  Marchioness  Street,  at  the  door 
of  the  hospital,  my  last  words  to  him  being,  "Yes, 
Julian,  I  will  be  your  old  friend  again." 

As  I  crossed  over  the  hall  of  "  Grace  Tem- 
ple" a  troop  of  my  little  patients  met  me,  and 
my  heart  was  so  full  that  I  was  forced  to  kiss 
and  play  with  them. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,"  said  one  of  them,  a  thoughtful 
little  girl  she  was-,  "have  you  seen  any  thing? 
You  look  so  pleased  and  strange." 

"My  dear,"  I  answered,  "I  have  met  in  my 
walk  a  very  old  friend,  whom  I  haven't  seen  for 
years,  and  that  makes  me  very  glad." 

And  as  I  said  this,  the  whole  troop  of  little 
patients  raised  their  weak,  thin,  clamorous  voices 
into  a  series  of  the  most  affecting  cheers  I  have 
ever  heard. 


BOOK  VI. 


PART    THE    SECOND    OP    A    WOMAN'S    STORY:— BEING    THE 
NARRATIVE  OF  OLIVE  BLAKE'S  REPENTANCE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ONLY     A     BABT. 

The  anticipation  of  great  gladness  has  been 
realized. 

It  is  the  height  of  the  London  season,  and  it 
is  such  a  season  tliat  the  oldest  inhabitant  of 
Mayfair  can  not  remember  its  like.  A  new  ojjera- 
house  has  been  opened ;  a  new  company  of  French 
players  are  performing  classic  dramas  in  the  St. 
James's  Theatre ;  three  foreign  princes  are  in 
town  ;  the  new  Prussian  Embassador  is  making 
the  world  stare  with  the  sjjlendor  of  his  enter- 
tainments ;  the  Royal  Academy  exhibits  six  un- 
questionably good  pictures  ;  a  newly-discovered 
tribe  has  been  brought  over  from  Mexico,  to- 
gether with  their  ornaments,  cooking  utensils, 
and  household  gods ;  a  European  war  is  ex- 
pected;  there  are  rumors  of  a  rising  in  Spain; 
a  dejiutation  has  arrived  at  court  from  Delhi, 
H 


with  an  offering  of  diamonds  for  the  British 
Crown  ;  the  ministry  is  tottering;  and  the  funds 
are  steadily  going  up. 

The  carriages  pass  under  my  windows  with 
muffled  roll,  bearing  the  wealthy  and  high-born 
to  grand  entertainments,  where  the  visitors  will 
all  thoroughly  enjoy  themselves  after  their  vari- 
ous fashions,  and  none  enjoy  themselves  more 
than  the  high  and  mighty  satirists  of  the  dis- 
play, the  music,  the  dresses,  the  conversation, 
and  all  the  efforts  made  to  jilease.  Since  jdeas- 
ure  is  a  pursuit  with  all,  why  is  it  so  universally 
preached  against  ?  and  by  none  preached  at  so 
bitterly  as  by  those  who  ought  to  speak  in  its 
favor  ? 

I  hear  the  rumble  of  the  chariots,  and  for  a 
short  five  minutes  I  amuse  myself  witli  imagin- 
ing the  bright  and  festive  scenes  for  which  their 
occupants  are  bound.  Then  turning  my  head 
ujion  my  pillow  I  say  to  fnyself,  "But  I  don't 


114 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


/ 


want  to  be  with  them,  lliis  istlie  hnjiiiiest  i)hicc, 
and  that  the  best  music  for  me."' 

Tlie  best  miissic  forme  is  tlie  quick,  short,  light, 
easy  brcatliing  of  a  little  creature,  that  lies  by 
my  side  in  a  nest  of  its  own ;  its  head  covered 
with  a  growtli  of  nature's  softest  floss-silk,  its 
features  delicate  as  a  biscuit-china  toy,  its  wee 
folded  hands  frail  as  a  butterfly's  wings.  Just 
now  I  listen  intently,  for  the  breathing  is  so  faint 
as  to  be  scarcely  perceptible,  even  to  my  ear. 
But — now — ;just  listen  to  that !  To  think  of  lungs 
so  young  having  all  that  power  in  them  !  Why 
they  chop  up  the  air  in  tiny  jjarts,  just  as  a  little 
dog  from  fairy-land  might  pant  for  pure  frolic. 
The  little  creature  is  my  baby — my  first  one  ;  so 
I  may  be  pardoned  talking  about  it.  I  am  so 
very  proud  of  it.  I  have  already  begun  to  call 
it  "  my  son." 

"Aunt  Wilby, "  I  say  to  my  dear  aunt,  who 
sits  in  the  deepening  twiliglit  by  ray  side,  "  how 
late  is  it?'' 

"  Half  past  eight,  dear — would  you  like  me 
to  order  lights?" 

"No,  no!  I  enjoy  the  dusk.  If  there  were 
a  breath  of  air  stirring  in  the  square  I  would  ask 
you  to  open  the  ^olian  har])s.  Baby  would  like 
the  music.  Isn't  he  breathing  sweetly?  He  is 
realli/  an  unusually  fine  boy?" 

"A  very  fine  boy,"  says  my  aunt,  emphatic- 
ally. 

She  has  told  me  so  twenty  times  within  the 
last  twenty  hours ;  she'll  have  to  repeat  the  as- 
surance as  often  within  the  next  twenty. 

"I  never  thought  its  head  would  be  covered 
with  hair,"  I  continued. 

"It  has  an  unusual  head  of  hair." 

"I  suppose  there's  no  harm  in  its  having  so 
much." 

"Harm?  Dear  me,  no;  it's  a  great  orna- 
ment." 

"  So  I  say ;  not  that  it  stands  in  need  of  the 
adornment." 

"  It  promises  to  be  very  well-looking." 

"  It  is  well-looking  already,  aunt." 

"  Of  course  it  is,  dear." 

"  I  really  should  like  to  have  the  lamp  brought 
from  the  next  room,  just  for  an  instant,  so  that 
I  may  look  at  it." 

The  nurse  is  summoned  for  my  gratification 
from  the  next  room;  and  she  enters,  bearing  a 
lamj),  carefully  shaded. 

"Pray  be  careful,  nurse;  don't  let  the  light 
fall  on  ray  child's  eyes.  What  a  beauty !  Oh, 
aunt,  do  look !  There,  nurse,  take  the  lamp 
away." 

Nurse  obeys ;  and  for  a  moment  I  am  afraid 
that  my  son  has  been  disturbed.  But  the  fear  is 
groundless.     He's  as  fast  asleep  as  ever. 

"  Arthur  will  come  in  soon,  on  his  way  down 
to  tlie  House,  aunt?" 

"  Why,  Olive,  he  was  here  only  three  hours 
since." 

"Yes;  but  he'll  like  to  see  the  boy  again  be- 
fore he  goes  to  bed.  I  wonder  how  the  ministry 
will  get  on  to-night." 

My  aunt  laughs.  "Let  the  poor  ministry 
alone.  Mr.  Petersham  will  have  his  ]»eeragc 
quite  soon  enough  to  gratify  your  maternal 
pride." 

"Indeed,  Aunt  Wilby,  your  deafness  is  bet- 
ter, "  I  retort.  "Your  new  physician  is  a  clever 
mail.     You  hear  things  before  they  are  said." 


"Not  before  they  are  thought,"  rejoins  my 
dear  aunt,  laughing  again. 

"Oh,  dear,  don't  laugh  so,  you'll  wake  him." 

"  Don't  be  alarmed.  My  lord  sleeps  soundly; 
what  title  shall  we  give  my  little  lord,  Olive!" 

"You're  very  foolish." 

"  What  say  you,  baby,  to  Baron  Byfield,  or 
Baron  Petersham  of  Byfield?  No,  that  won't 
do.  The  Baron  Byfield  is  the  title.  Arthur 
Petersham,  Baron  Byfield  !" 

"Hush,  there  he  is!"  I  say,  as  my  quick  ear 
detects  the  sound  of  a  carriage  stopping  before 
my  door,  on  the  thick  carpet  of  straw  that  in  my 
honor  covers  one  side  ot'  Grosvenor  Square,  and 
thirtv  yards  of  a  street  leading  into  it. 

"Who?  Dr.  Andover?" 
_  "No;  Arthur." 

In  another  minute  my  husband  enters,  and 
comes  to  my  side.  He  is  excited,  and  hesitates 
rather  more  than  usual. 

"  I-I  c-can't  st-stop  many  minutes,  Olive,  for 
I  must  be  in  the  House.  Th-there  w-will  be  a 
division,  and  the  niinistiy  can't  stand.  I-its 
ira-inipossible  they  can  stand ;  we  are  sure  of  a 
majority  of  twenty." 

He  kisses  me  both  before  and  after  saying  this  ; 
and  then  he  proceeds  to  give  me  the  particulars 
of  a  conversation  he  has  just  had  with  the  lead- 
ers of  the  opposition.  When  he  has  finished 
these  interesting  communications,  he  goes  round 
to  the  baby's  nest,  and  after  looking  at  it  silently 
for  more  than  a  minute  says,  "God  bless  you, 
little  Baron  Byfield !" 

"Don't  put  such  ambitious  thoughts  into  his 
head,  Arthur,"  I  say. 

"G-good-n-night,  Olive, "he  answers,  "good- 
night. If  all  goes  well  our  boy  will  be  the  second 
Baron  Byfield.     Good-night." 

The  door  has  closed  upon  him,  and  I  am  once 
again  listening  to  the  delicate  breathing  of  my 
newly-invented  baby.  The  moon  rises  over  the 
square  and  throws  its  rays  into  my  open  window, 
enabling  me  to  see  my  darling  as  he  lies  in  his 
nest,  breathing  fast  and  slow  by  turns,  uncon- 
scious that  his  future  dignity  may  depend  on  the 
proceedings  of  that  night. 

He  is  only  a  baby. 

But  he  is  the  heir  of  an  honored  name  and 
vast  wealth !  Yet  more ;  for  him  generations  of 
prudent,  cunning,  highly  cultivated  men  have 
labored,  and  plotted,  and  hoped  ! 

The  ambitious  of  dead  men  centre  in  him  ! 


CHAPTER  11. 


MONEY. 

Such  happiness  had  come  upon  me,  within 
three  months  of  the  fright  I  experienced  from 
the  irruption  of  "  the  mad  girl  I"  It  was  a  short 
time ;  but  it  was  long  enough  for  the  mad  girl 
to  have  dropped  completely  from  my  thoughts. 
Her  anguish  under  the  apprehension  of  being 
separated  from  her  babe  was  no  aft'air  of  mine. 
It  never  for  one  instant  recurred  to  me,  as  I  lay 
with  my  treasure  breathing  by  my  side.  "T!i3 
mad  girl"  was  simplj'  one  of  the  "people" — tliat 
vast,  vague,  fluctuating  assemblage  of  human  in- 
terest, that  I  surveyed  from  my  carriage  win- 
dows, read  of  in  the  newspajxirs,  comforted 
through  the   medium   of   "  charitable  institu- 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


115 


tions,"  and  was  benevolent  to — iVoni  a  distance. 
I  was  not  heartless,  but  only  thouf^htless.  I 
wished  to  do  my  duty  to  my  neiy;libors,  and 
sometimes  I  was  very  earnest  in  the  wish  ;  but 
someliow,  in  aetion,  my  charity  consisted  in  giv- 
ing away  money  that  1  didn't  want,  and  leaving 
to  others  the  trouble  that  would  have  been  dis- 
tasteful to  a  lady  of  fashion. 

;\Iy  husband  voted  with  his  party  on  the  night 
already  mentioned  ;  but  the  Cabinet  was  not 
broken  u\).  The  premier  stood  his  ground  till 
the  prorogation  of  Parliament  gave  him  security 
for  another  five  or  six  months.  With  the  open- 
ing of  the  following  year,  however,  a  new  Ad- 
ministration was  formed,  and  the  privilege  of 
governing  the  country  fell  into  fresh  hands. 
There  was  the  usual  scramble  for  jilaces.  Pa- 
triots must  have  their  reward — their  means  of 
doing  good  to  their  country  and  their  relatives. 
Mr.  Arthur  Byfield  Petersham  had  heli)ed  the 
victors,  and  asked  for  the  recognition  of  his,  and 
his  father's,  and  his  grandfather's  services.  He 
did  not  ask  for  post  or  ]3ension,  power  or  patron- 
age. All  that  he  sought  was  the  privilege  of 
sitting  among  the  fathers  of  the  land,  the  right 
to  style  himself  "  noble,"  and  a  promise  on  the 
part  of  his  fellow-countrymen  to  hold  one  of  his 
descendants  in  each  of  the  succeeding  genera- 
tions noble  also. 

This  was  Arthur  Byfield  Petersham's  ambi- 
tion, and  he  achieved  it. 

He  became  Baron  Byfield,  and  my  baby  was 
his  heir. 

Although  my  father  had  begun  life  a  poor 
City  clerk,  he  was  cadet  of  a  good  Irish  house  ; 
and  my  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  family 
that  for  centuries  had  held  a  place  among  "  the 
gentle"  of  the  North  country.  I  was  therefore 
by  no  means  of  a  descent  that  could  be  emphatic- 
ally styled  plebeian.  Sprung,  however,  from  the 
middle  rank  of  life,  and  reared  by  a  father  the 
simplicity  of  whose  manners  was  equal  to  the 
dignity  and  politeness  of  his  mind,  I  had  always 
in  my  girlhood  regarded  the  aristocracy  of  the 
country  as  separated  from  mc  by  a  wide  inter- 
val. Partly  also  from  the  influence  of  the  litera- 
ture in  which  I  took  greatest  pleasure,  jjartly 
from  genuine  sympathy  with  the  pursuits  of  men 
of  letters  and  artists  (who  only  occasionally  be- 
long by  birth  to  the  highest  ranks  of  society), 
and  partly  without  a  doubt  from  a  generous 
pride  in  my  father's  career,  as  well  as  a  i>oetic 
sentiment  that  made  me  feel  strongly  for  the 
weak,  I  had  in  my  early  days  at  Fulham  pro- 
fessed to  identify  myself  with  "the  people."  It 
may  well  make  my  readers  laugh  ;  but  I  used 
to  brag  a  little  about  being  "  only  a  banker's 
daughter,"  and  to  play  the  part  of  "a  child  of 
the  people."  In  theory  I  was  a  terrible  repub- 
lican, writing  sonnets  to  the  oppressed,  and  aim- 
ing a  hot  fire  of  scathing  denunciations  at  kings 
and  tyrants.  Titles — empty  titles  (I  never  spoke 
of  titles,  when  I  was  fourteen  years  old,  without 
calling  them  empty')  I  held  in  lively  contempt ; 
and  even  in  the  last  days  of  my  dear  father's  life 
\  I  remember  being  perplexed  how  he  could  so 
strongly  approve  of  the  ambition  cherished  by 
I  his  friend  and  partner.  And  afterward,  the 
I  strong  probability  that  Mr.  Arthur  Petersham 
!  would  sooner  or  later  acquire  a  peerage  had 
,  seemed  to  me  as  the  only  weighty  reason  why 
!  I  should  not  care  to  be  his  wife. 


Of  course  my  republicanism  was  a  very  dainty 
afi'an-,  tinted  with  couleur  de  rose,  and  delicately 
scented,  like  the  curtains  of  my  boudoir.  It  was 
mere  sweetmeat  and  sugar-plum  politics,  but  all 
the  same  for  that  I  was  earnest  in  it,  believing 
it  the  strongest  meat  of  social  science. 

And  here  was  Olive  Blake,  the  proj)hetess  of 
liberalism,  the  advocate  of  advanced  opiniou^, 
and  the  scorner  of  "emi)ty  titles,"  taking  her 
place  in  the  world  as  a  i)ccrcss,  and  exulting  in 
the  "nobility"  of  "  her  boy  !" 

We  came  up  to  town  with  the  opening  of  the 
season,  anxious  to  begin  life  again  in  our  new 
characters,  with  our  new  dignity  ! 

At  certain  periods  of  his  life  my  husband  had 
been  a  zealous  "  business  man,"  taking  an  amount 
of  personal  toil  in  the  conduct  of  the  affairs  of 
"Petersham  and  Blake"  that  few  men  of  his 
rank  would  have  consented  to  undergo.  And 
now  that  he  was  exalted  to  the  chamber  of  our 
hereditary  noblesse,  he  had  no  intention  of  re- 
linquishing his  commercial  avocations.  Business 
with  him  was  not  only  a  pursuit,  it  was  poetry. 
Worshiping  money  with  the  ardor  of  a  true 
Plutocrat,  he  idealized  it  as  at  the  same  time 
the  emblem,  the  language,  and  the  essence  of 
power.  Had  he  pressed  the  premier  for  a  place 
in  the  Cabinet  he  might  unquestionably  have  ob- 
tained one  ;  but  the  labors  of  office  would  in  his 
estimation  have  been  by  no  means  compensated 
by  the  influence  and  transient  e'clat  of  an  office- 
holder. The  only  power  that  he  valued  was 
that  which  was  his  by  virtue  of  his  financial 
position.  His  peerage  was  a  public  recognition 
of  that  position ;  and  therefore  he  prized  it,  as 
a  distinction  and  a  star  of  honor ;  but  far  more 
he  held  it  in  esteem,  because  it  gave  him  rank 
among  capitalists,  placing  him  at  the  head  of 
the  London  bankers,  and  imparting  to  him  in- 
creased weight  in  that  select  fraternity  of  traffick- 
ers in  money,  who  may  be  termed  the  state- 
financiers  of  Europe. 

His  father's  view  had  been,  that  on  achieving 
elevation  to  the  peerage  his  son  should  gradually 
disassociate  himself  from  commerce,  and  cover- 
ing the  coflfers  won  in  Lombard  Street  with 
heraldic  blazonry,  should  wear  with  the  com- 
posure of  "his  order"  the  honors  of  a  British 
noble.  But  Lord  Byfield  had  very  different  ]>lans 
for  himself.  He  had  become  the  acknowledged 
captain  of  London  bankers  ;  he  would  not  rest 
till  he  had  made  himself  in  like  manner  the 
leader  of  the  state-financiers  of  Europe.  He 
would  also  do  yet  more  in  the  narrow  field  of 
English  society  than  he  had  yet  accomplished. 
Steadily  pursuing  his  father's  policy  of  using  his 
money  as  an  engine  for  acquiring  political  in- 
fluence, he  (without  ever  annexing  himself  to 
any  Cabinet)  would  make  himself  an  arbiter  be- 
tween parties,  and  raise  and  throw  down  states- 
men as  he  thought  right.  Higher  rank  should 
be  given  him  in  the  peerage.  And  from  high 
to  low  Great  Britain  should  look  to  him,  the 
money-lord,  as  one  of  the  chief  powers  of  the 
commonwealth.  He  would  teach  the  proudest 
aristocracy  in  Europe  a  lesson  that  they  had 
never  yet  rightly  learned,  because  they  had  never 
been  riglitly  taught  it — a  lesson  worthy  to  be  in- 
culcated— the  lesson  that  far  beyond  the  rivalry 
of  virtue,  and  valor,  and  wisdom  money  is  om- 
nipotent 1 
1      This  was  my  husband's  purpose.    A  base  doc- 


116 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


trine,  suvely,  was  tliat  which  he  wished  to  enun- 
ciate, and  indelibly  imi)ress  on  the  national  char- 
acter; but  base  as  it  was,  he  would  have  taupilit 
tiie  lesson  grandly.  Knowing  him  well  as  I  do 
now,  his  meanness  and  uneleanness — 1  must  still 
in  justice  own  that  I  can  not  imagine  any  man 
better  qualified  for  efi'ectively  enforcing  so  hate- 
ful a  view  of  life. 

Polite,  cultivated,  acute,  and  eminently  a  so- 
cial being,  devoid  of  i)etty  prejudices,  and  ])os- 
sesscd  even  to  a  dangerous  degree  of  a  faculty  to 
discern,  appreciate,  and  sympathize  with  the  se- 
cret feelings  of  his  fellow-creatures,  Lord  IJytield 
was  a  dark  and  secretive  man,  never,  with  all 
his  easy  frankness,  showing  the  world  the  cards 
of  his  hand,  or  even  letting  it  he  known  what 
game  heVas  playing.  His  ordinary  com])a7ii()ns 
regarded  him  as  nothing  more  that  a  well-bred 
man  of  the  world — too  prudent  to  wreck  or  in 
any  way  injure  the  magnificent  fortune  he  had 
inherited,  but  in  no  way  j)Ossesscd  of  the  strength 
of  intellect  or  purpose  re(iuisitc  for  achieving  suc- 
cess against  the  obstacles  of  adversity.  His  jieer- 
age  wa,s  rightly  regarded  l)y  the  world  as  a  natu- 
ral consequence  of  his  father's  exertions  ;  but  the 
^vorld  was  singularly  in  error  when  it  judged  the 
holder  of  that  peerage  to  be  nothing  more  than 
a  ([uiet,  indolent,  inoffensive,  unambitious,  com- 
monjjlacc  gentleman. 

It  was  with  exquisite  pleasure  that  I  found 
myself  not  wed  to  a  characterless  m.in.  Until  my 
union  with  him,  and  indeed  for  several  months 
afterward,  I  had  concurred  in  the  world's  esti- 
mate of  his  capacity  and  disposition  ;  and  the 
worst  features  of  my  life's  prospect  were  the  dis- 
comforts I  anticipated  experiencing  from  his 
want  of  aim.  It  was  not  till  the  time  drew  near 
for  me  to  be  a  mother  that  lie  revealed  to  me 
the  strength  and  purpose  of  his  mind.  Women 
are  loyal  to  jjower,  in  whatever  form  it  manifests 
itself,  and  their  weakness  is  impressed  by  it  just 
in  proportion  as  it  is  discovered  where  it  was 
least  expected.  My  husband  quickly  saw  that 
I  had  learned  to  respect  him,  and  he  proceeded 
to  strengthen  his  influence  over  me  by  all  the 
arts  of  fascination ;  his  mastery  of  which  gave 
him  a  power  over  women,  which  his  ordinary 
and  even  insignificant  ajijicarance,  his  disfigured 
face,  and  his  impeded  utterance  would  seem  to 
lun-e  ])recludcd  him  from  olitaining. 

Naturally  his  view  of  life  became  my  view  of 
life — his  aim  my  aim.  I  lived  in  a  higher,  clear- 
er atmos])hcre  before  ;  but  my  flight  liad  iieen  un- 
steady, in  the  pursuit  first  of  one  olyeet,  and 
then  of  another.  He  caught  me  in  his  firm 
grasp,  and  bringing  me  down  to  his  range  of  ob- 
servation, turned  my  eyes  to  /lis  object,  and  in- 
spired me  with  a  determination  to  follow  it. 
Where  two  persons  are  brought  together,  the 
weaker  will  succuml)  to  the  stronger.  Neither 
in  loftiness  uf  aspiration,  nor  purity  of  intention, 
nor  unselfishness,  lies  the  power  that  decides 
which  of  the  two  is  to  prevail  over  the  other. 
The  question  is  one  of  steady,  persistent  resolu- 
lion,  and  he  who  has  the  most  of  it  will  be  victor. 

Perhaps  if  that  had  not  occurred  which  it  is 
niy  iiUeiition  to  tell  in  the  ])resent  book,  I  migiit 
still  in  course  of  years  have  burst  asunder  the 
fetter-!  of  bondage  in  which  hi^  held  me;  but  I 
am  of  a  dinided  o)>inion  that  such  would  not  have 
])wn  the  case.  If  I  had  lived  with  him  for  five 
years,  as  haj)pily  and  as  intimately  as  it  atone  time 


seemed  sure  I  sliould  live  with  him,  I  believe  that 
with  my  soul  as  well  as  my  body  I  should  have 
been  his  willing  slave  to  the  end.  For  the  man 
had  a  strange  and  truly  fearful  power.  He  made 
me  love  him,  even  while  he  caused  me  to  feel  that 
I  was  growing  less  lovable  in  my  own  heart. 

He  gave  me  conjidence,  and  that  is  the  jtraise 
sweetest  to  a  wife.  If  at  first  1  did  not  like  what 
he  revealed  to  me — still  lie  had  shown  it,  it  was 
moreover  part  of  him,  and  so  I  loved  it. 

Therefore,  with  all  my  heart,  and  soul,  and 
strength,  I  resolved  to  be  a  brilliant  and  admired 
woman  of  the  world.  To  use  all  my  quickness 
of  parts,  and  learning  (for  I  had  some),  and  ac- 
complishments, in  his  service.  To  study  and 
practice  the  arts  of  pleasing,  so  as  to  be  "a 
power  in  his  hand,"  in  order  that  the  world 
might  come  round  me,  and  I  might  influence  it 
as  he  bade  me.  He  was  far  from  the  highest 
order  of  man.  That  I  well  knew.  But  he  was 
a  man — a  strong  man  ;  and  I  would  be  liis  wife — 
loving  and  faithful ;  the  swiftest  and  surest  serv- 
ant he  had  ever  commanded. 

Wiien  we  came  to  London  at  the  opening  of 
the  season  it  was  not  to  re-enter  our  house  in 
Grosvenor  Square.  Lord  Byjield  had  arranged 
to  make  his  first  campaign  in  the  capital  under 
ills  new  title  with  suitable  splendor.  The  largest 
mansion  in  Piccadilly  had  therefore  been  pur- 
chased by  him  (as  soon  as  he  saw  his  elevation 
was  near  at  hand),  and  all  that  lavish  ex])endi- 
ture  in  the  course  of  eight  months  could  do  to- 
ward converting  it  into  one  of  the  most  superb 
residences  in  town  had  been  accomplished.  Our 
staft"  of  servants  was  increased ;  the  horses  were 
concentrated  from  our  country  jilaccs,  and  we 
had  a  stud  for  royalty  to  envy ;  our  equipages 
were  new,  and  built  for  the  express  purjiose  of 
being  admired;  and  as  soon  as  we  had  taken  up 
our  quarters  opposite  the  Green  Park  we  were 
giving  a  series  of  entertainments.  "  The  dandies 
will  sneer  at  our  splendor,"  said  Lord  Byfield, 
"and  accuse  me  of  gilding  my  gold  ;  but  as  it  is 
a  real  rose  that  I  paint,  they'll  forgive  me." 

And  so  we  set  about  the  great  business  of  our 
lives— to  teach  people  that  Money  Is  Omnipo- 
tent! 


CHAPTER  III. 

DE.VTIl. 

CiiiLDKEN  and  kindred  are  the  forms  Satan 
often  assumes  to  temjit  those  he  would  make  his 
victims.  To  serve  his  wife  and  benefit  his  child 
a  man  will  frequently  do  on  a  sijslem  that  which 
he  would  scorn  to  do  once  for  the  jiurpose  of 
serving  hiiiise//.  It  was  thus  with  me.  In  de- 
liberately taking  for  my.self  a  low  object,  1  justi- 
fied mys'elf  by  the  consideration  that  I  was  about 
to  advance  the  interests  of  my  husband  and  child. 

It  was  so  sweet  to  think  as  baby  lay  upon  my 
breast  that  I  was  going  to  /ic/p  him — to  do  work, 
and  to  make  sacrifices,  the  result  of  which  would 
be  his'cxaltation  when  he  sliould  have  reached 
manhood.  As  his  little  hands  patted  me  and 
beat  me,  and  his  blue  eyes  looked  u])  at  me  with 
a  smile  ere  their  soft  liils  closed,  or  as  he  press- 
ed his  lips  together  and  throwing  back  his  head 
ujioii  my  arms  laughed,  and  crowed,  in  answer 
to  the  endearing  nonsense  of  my  foolish  tongue, 
I  felt  that  I  had  found  a  work  in  life — one  worthy 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


117 


task — to  be  a  motlicr,  c:\relcss  of  c^ery  interest, 
])i-esent  or  future,  tliat  would  not  contrihiitc  to 
his  prosperity.  "  B;iby,"  I  used  to  say.  looking 
at  the  treasure  on  my  hiji,  "you  won't  know  for 
many  days  how  your  mother  has  surrendered 
her3;?lf  to  your  serviee — how  her  dress,  and  wit, 
and  grace,  and  control  of  temper,  and  amiability, 
an  1  cunning,  and  wile,  are  simply  your  servi- 
tors. Mamma  means  to  be  a  loyal  wife,  obedi- 
ent and  intelligent ;  but  wifely  duty  to  her  is  only 
another  name  for  child's  interest."     • 

But  this  bliss  of  wickedness  lasted  only  for  a 
few  short  months.  It  was  like  a  dream,  in  its 
course  persuading  the  dreamer  that  its  incidents 
cover  whole  years,  and  in  its  conclusion  showing 
him  that  its  manifold  intricate  mutations  of  act- 
ors, and  positions,  and  feelings,  wcn-e  crowded 
witliin  a  few  brief  minutes.  Wiien  Jonah  lay 
in  languid  luxury  under  the  shade  of  his  palm- 
crist, he  rejoiced  with  great  joy,  and  every  mo- 
ment of  the  "exceeding  gladness"  appeared  to 
him  a  life  of  conscious  comfort.  Its  refreshing 
coolness  was  the  source  and  limit  of  his  sensa- 
tions, and  beyond  the  sensations  of  the  moment 
he  did  not  care  to  look.  The  tree  had  been  ever 
thjre,  and  would  be  ever  there — and  so  would 
h,\  His  wandering  by  land  and  by  sea,  his  past 
toil  and  anguish,  were  unheeded.  He  forgot 
how  mysteriously  the  Lord  God  had  prepared 
the  tree,  and  made  it  to  come  over  him,  that  it 
might  be  a  shadow  over  his  head,  and  deliver 
him  from  his  grief.  The  sorrow  and  the  mercy 
had  both  passed  from  his  mind.  He  never  look- 
ed beyond  the  branches,  or  remembered  the  heat 
that  tortured  him  ere  they  were,  or  dreaded  the 
h.^at  to  come  when  they  should  have  perished. 
The  tree  was  there — and  he  was  dreaming  under 
it.  That  was  enough,  while  the  dream  lasted. 
But  when  the  worm  smote  the  tree  that  it  with- 
ered, and  the  vehement  east  wind  rose,  and  the 
fierce  sun  beat  on  .Jonah,  till  his  fever  made  him 
sav,  "It  is  better  for  me  to  die  than  to  live!"  he 
then  saw  that  the  leafy  cano])y,  given  him  so 
bountifully  and  taken  from  him  so  wisely,  far 
from  having  roots  firmly  fixed  in  the  past,  and 
being  made  for  permanence,  had  only  existed  a 
f;w  hours.  "The  tree,"  said  the  Lord,  "for 
the  which  thou  hast  not  labored,  neither  madest 
it  to  grow;  which  came  up  in  a  night,  and  per- 
islijd  in  a  night." 

As  Jonah  dreamed  blissfully  under  his  tree,  so 
centuries  afterward  the  foolish  rich  man  built  his 
noble  mansion,  and  vowed  that  he  would  be  mer- 
ry for  many  years,  little  thinking,  poor  fool,  that 
his  many  years  would  be  shorter  than  the  day 
and  night  in  which  Jonah  enjoyed  himself. 

Tliat  first  brilliant  season  came  to  an  end,  and 
we  left  town.  My  husband  was  well  and  in  good 
spirits ;  I  was  proud,  and  happy,  and  confident ; 
my  babe  every  day  and  every  hour  manifested 
S(jm2  fresh  beauty  or  sign  of  health  and  intelli- 
g  Mice,  and  troops  of  friends  never  wearied  with 
praising  me.     Our  season  had  been  a  triumph. 

That  was  in  July. 

Three  months  later — ^just  as  Nature's  green 
woods  were  taking  the  yellow  sere,  and  the  dry 
red  leaves  were  being  blown  over  the  bleak,  dry 
common,  or  lay  in  heaps  along  the  lanes — the 
fresh  cool  covering  of  my  worldlincss  fell,  even 
like  Jonah's,  and  I  was  left  to  exclaim,  "It  is 
.better  for  me  to  die  than  to  live  !" 
\      My  little  baby  is  dead. 


It  fell  ill  shortly  after  we  left  London  for  Bur- 
stead  House,  with  a  malady  for  which  the  phy- 
sicians could  assign  no  cause.  Week  after  week 
it  grew  worse.  Doctors  upon  doctors  posted 
down  from  London,  but  they  could  not  save  it ; 
for  the  same  Hand  which  smote  Jonah's  tree, 
causing  it  to  wither,  smote  my  baby,  so  that  it 
should  die.  It  was  only  a  year  and  three  months 
old  when  it  died.  Two  days  before  it  seemed  to 
me  as  thougii  I  had  never  been  without  it;  two 
days  afterward  I  could  scarce  believe  that  it  had 
lived  more  than  a  few  weeks.  The  little  baby 
which  came  up  in  one  year  and  perished  iu  an- 
other is  to  me  now  as  though  it  had  "come  up 
in  a  night  and  perished  in  a  night." 

My  dream  is  over — and  tlie  dream  was  not  an 
entire  life,  but  only  a  dream  of  a  few  brief  minutes. 
I  am  sitting  alone  in  a  bedroom  of  Burstead 
House — a  silent,  quiet  room ;  a  room  I  have  not 
left  all  day  save  when  from  time  to  time  I  have 
passed  into  an  inner  chamber  where  my  little 
baby  lies  in  its  coffin,  with  its  fair,  shadowy, 
tiny  face  enveloped  in  linen,  delicately  wrought 
— where  it  looks  something  as  it  did  on  the  day 
when  it  was  cliristencd,  only  ])urer,  fairer,  more 
sacred  !  It  breathed  then  and  was  warm,  and  I 
loved  to  touch  it ;  it  is  quite  still  and  silent  now, 
and  I  dare  only  to  look  at  it,  and  even  that  only 
for  a  few  moments  at  a  time. 

It  is  a  dull,  clouded  afternoon.  The  rain  does 
not  fall ;  but  sombre  volumes  of  vapor  move 
close  to  the  ])n\k,  over  which  the  wind,  buft'et- 
ing  all  things  fitfully  and  wailing  harshly,  drives 
the  red  leaves.  I  watch  them  driven — like 
flights  of  small  birds  over  the  water :  I  watch 
them  chased  in  the  distance — fine  and  small  as 
a  swarm  of  insects — whirled  over  the  fences  of 
the  deer-park,  and  over  the  trim  lawn  of  the 
ornamental  garden,  close  under  the  windows. 
There  is  no  sun  to  set  this  afternoon.  But  the 
sombre  masses  of  vapor  grow  blacker  and  blacker, 
and  the  red  leaves  become  specks  of  ebony,  till 
soon  they  are  indistinguishable— on  the  gravel 
of  the  terraces,  and  the  carpet-grass  surround- 
ing the  flower-beds,  as  well  as  in  the  distance 
over  the  cold  mirror  of  the  lake,  and  over  the 
deer-park. 

,  My  husband  is  in  town,  where  business  has 
detained  him  for  several  days.  He  has  not  seen 
baby  since  its  death ;  but  he  will  arrive  to-night 
to  .see  it,  ere  I  take  my  last  look  of  it,  and  cover 
it  with  flowers,  and  say  to  it,  "Good-by,  baby 
— good-by  forever  ! " 

It  is  darker  and  darker.  The  wind  is  still 
])ursuing  the  red  leaves,  buffeting  them  to  and 
fro  in  the  open  ])laces,  or  swirling  them  up  ave- 
nues, or  causing  them  to  rise  and  twist  round 
the  oak  stems  and  then  shoot  np  like  spirts  of 
water.  But  the  leaves,  not  less  than  the  wind, 
are  invisible  to  the  game-keeper  walking  over  the 
park,  as  well  as  to  me  standing  at  the  window  of 
my  silent  room. 

I  am  quite  alone.     No  one  may  disturb  me. 

After  it  has  grown  quite  dark  I  light  a  taper, 
and  enter  the  solemn  inner  chamber  where  little 
baby  lies  in  its  coffin,  all  ready  for  its  funeral, 
save  that  I  and  my  husband  have  not  taken  our 
last  looks,  and  covered  it  with  flowers. 

My  solitary  candle  is  sufficient  to  show  me  its 
shadowy,  dream-like  face,  its  waxen  lips,  its  gold- 
en hair,  its  little  hands. 

"Oh,  baby!"    I   say,    "your  little  f;ice  was 


118 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


oiicf  full  of  smiles,  with  a  meaning  of  its  own 
for  every  smile ;  and  your  little  lips  that  had 
iiscil  to  say  '  mamma,'  were  wont,  ere  they 
could  form  a  word,  to  close  u))on  me  so  firmly. 
Shall  1  never  dress  your  golden  hair  again  ? 
Little  hands — you  onee  beat  against  my  bre;ist, 
with  little  nails  quite  scratching  tiie  skin  of  it, 
while  your  blue  eyes,  starting  with  gladness, 
turned  round  as  they  looked  at  me." 

Then  I  leave  it,  with  the  taper  burning  at  its 
head,  and  I  walk  to  and  fro  in  the  darkness  of 
the  large  outer  room  for  many  minutes,  thinking 
of  all  my  wicked  worldly  ambition  for  my  child, 
of  which  that  still,  silent  picture  of  angelic  in- 
fancy is  all  that  remains  to  me.  When  I  return 
to  the  lighted  chamber  it  is  to  wring  my  hands 
and  say,  "Oh,  God  ! — and  that  is  the  child  we 
said  should  be  a  mighty  one  of  the  earth !  Ah, 
God,  pardon  me !     Help  me ! — I  shall  go  iimcir' 

I  utter  those  words  aloud,  and  the  last  of  them 
striking  on  my  own  ear  as  I  speak  it,  leads  my 
thoughts  into  another  channel,  and  causes  me 
for  the  first  time  for  more  than  a  year  to  recall 
the  poor  mad  girl  who  came  to  me  in  Grosvenor 
Street,  and  told  me  that  cruel  men  were  jdotting 
to  separate  her  from  her  child.  Her  bal)y  had 
smiled  on  her,  and  laughed  at  her,  and  crowed 
at  her.  Its  lips  had  drained  warm  nouiislinient 
from  her  breast,  its  little  hands  meannliiL'  beat- 
ing it  and  scratching  the  skin  of  it.  vShc  had 
felt  all  this;  but  I  had  not  ])itied  her.  How 
then  could  I  ask  God  to  pity  me  ? 


CHAPTER  IV. 


CORRECTION. 


The  recollection  of  Etty  Tree  having  at 
length  come  back  to  me  was  not  speedily  to  de- 
2)art  from  my  mind.  When  my  husband  arrived 
at  Burstead  House,  and  stood  with  me  by  the 
side  of  our  dead  child,  the  poor  mad  girl  seemed 
to  me  to  rise  up  before  us,  and  mutely  implore 
me  to  render  her  justice.  It  was  the  same  in 
church  during  next  day,  when  we  and  a  few 
friends  and  our  servants  were  present  at  the  fu- 
neral of  "my  boy."  The  vision  of  the  beauiti- 
ful  and  miserable  creature  haunted  me.  At 
night  I  lay  awake  thinking  of  her;  and  when 
toward  the  morning  I  dozed  off  into  a  semblance 
of  slumber,  it  was  only  to  start  up  as  she  ap- 
jjcared  to  me  in  a  dream. 

I  had  never  troubled  myself  about  her  part- 
ing words.  At  the  time  of  their  utterance  they 
were  considered  by  me  merely  as  an  outpouring 
of  insolence  as  well  as  deceit.  Afterward,  on 
the  arrival  of  my  husband,  I  held  them  to  be  the 
words  of  insanity ;  and,  viewed  in  either  light, 
I  had  soon  forgot  them.  But  now,  clear  and 
pathetic  as  when  they  left  her  lips,  they  pene- 
trated to  my  hidden  dei)ths  of  feeling.  '.'Oh, 
poor  lady,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  jjity 
you  !  Last  time  I  was  here  I  a-sked  you  to  ))ity 
me.  It  is  now  my  turn  to  pity.  1  have  been 
a  wicked,  vain,  heartless  girl ;  but  indeed  yon 
wrong  me,  and  in  his  own  time  (jod  will  prove 
me  innocent  of  what  you  lay  to  my  charge." 

Truly  her  turn  had  come  to  i)ity  me. 

Why  was  it  that,  in  spite  of  my  undisturbed 
belief  in  my  husband's  honor,  ii  ))rcsentiment 
would  for  minutes  together  possess  me  that  the 


concluding   prophecy    of  lier    parting    address 
would  one  day  be  fulfilled. 

My  husband  remained  a  month  with  me  at 
Burstead  House,  when  it  was  arranged  that  he 
should  leave  me  for  a  visit  to  an  adjoining  coun- 
ty, and  meet  me  again  in  about  three  weeks' 
time  at  my  dear  old  villa  at  Fulham,  where  I 
ho])ed  to  enjoy  several  weeks  of  retirement. 

"Arthur,"  I  said  to  him,  on  the  day  ])revious 
to  his  departure  from  Burstead  House,  "can 
you  tell  me  what  has  become  of  that  poor  girl 
Etty  Tree  and  her  child  ?" 

I  said  this  with  a  great  effort,  both  because 
the  subject  was  a  painful  one,  and  because  I  felt 
a  shame  in  never  having  before  jait  the  question 
to  my  husband. 

He  seemed  disturbed  at  my  inquiiy,  and 
hesitated  to  an  unusual  degree  as  he  replied, 
"D-dear  m-mc,  no,  Olive.  What  has  jjut  hei- 
into  your  mind?" 

"It  is  not  unnatural  that  I  should  think  of 
her.      She  had  a  child." 

"W-well,  d-dear?" 

"I  should  like  to  helj)  that  child,  Artlmr;  I 
should  be  hapjiy  if  I  could  do  so.  She  s]joke  to 
me  about  it  a  few  months  before  I  was  blessed 
with  our  little  one.  Perhajjs  the  jealousy  of  ma^ 
ternal  affection,  even  at  that  date,  causing  me 
to  w  ince  at  tlie  thought  of  what  my  child  would 
be  if  her  mad  words  were  true,  had  an  influence 
upon  me  that  I  feel  pain  to  reflect  ujjon — urged 
me,  in  short,  to  speak  to  her  with  cruelty  wlien 
at  my  hands  at  least  she  rather  deserved  com- 
miseration. Any  how,  the  death  of  my  dear 
child  has  brought  her  b^tbe  to  my  mind,  and  1 
should  very  much  like  to  take  her  and  it  under 
my  ])rotection.     Was  her  babe  a  boy,  Arthur?" 

"  Y-yes  ;   a-L  boy." 

"You  do  not  disapprove  my  plan?" 

"F-far  f-from  it,  dear  Olive,"  he  answered. 
"It  is  like  your  own  gentle  self  to  entertain  such 
a  thought." 

"You  will  then  let  me  know  where  she  is?" 

"Kn-know  wh-where  she  is,  my  dear  girl? 
I  can  not  tell  you.  How  came  vou  to  think  I 
could?" 

Now  that  Lord  Byfield  so  questioned  me,  I 
was  surprised  at  finding  how  slight  my  grounds 
were  for  assuming  that  Etty  Tree  was  in  a  con- 
finement suited  to  her  malady,  and  that  my  hus- 
band was  at  least  cognizant  of  the  retreat  iu 
which  she  had  been  placed. 

"As  I  am  wrong  in  my  supposition,  yoa'll 
think  me  a  very  unreasonable  person  for  having 
entertained  it,"  I  answered.  "Since  the  ]iooi 
girl  disturbed  me  in  Grosvenor  Square  I  have 
scarcely  thought  of  her  six  times ;  but  when  her 
story  was  still  nciv  to  me,  I  conceived  that  of 
course  the  victim  of  so  painful  a  hallucination 
would  not  be  permitted  to  be  at  large.  1  kuev 
that  she  had  no  relations  to  take  ])ossession  ol 
her,  and  therefore  my  mind  had  taken  an  im 
])ression  that  yon,  acting  for  Sir  George  Watchit, 
would  provide  for  her  comfort,  and  security,  and 
remedial  treatment.  Indeed,  if  yon  had  asked 
me  at  atiy  time  within  the  last  twelve  months 
where  I  imagined  the  ]ioor  girl  to  be  who  bad 
caused  mc  so  much  annoyance,  I  should  have 
answered,  '  In  scnnc  private  lunatic  asylum,  where 
you  have  jdaced  her,  with  directions  for  her  to 
be  treated  with  every  ])Ossible  indulgence.'  " 

"A-and  f-far  from  being   an  unreasonable 


I 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


119 


answer,  Olive," rejoined  Lord Byfield,  "it  would 
have  been  one  supported  by  your  knowledge  of 
Avhat  I  did  for  the  girl  at  Nice,  and  would  also 
have  been  countenanced  by  your  sense  of  pro- 
priety and  litness.  But  all  tlie  same  for  tliat, 
the  answer,  1  regret  to  say  it,  would  liave  been 
erroneous." 

"■  Indeed!" 

"  I-imniediately  a-after  I  learned  of  the  poor 
creature's  visits  to  our  house  in  Grosvenor  Square, 
I  caused  a  search  to  be  made  for  her  in  every 
quarter,  for  the  express  pur])ose  of  placing  lier 
under  salutary  restraint.  The  course  I  should 
have  adopted  to  her  would  liave  been  j)recisely 
that  which  your  hypothetical  answer  has  sketch- 
ed." 

"And  did  you  find  her?" 

"I-I  c-could  not  even  get  a  trace  of  her. 
With  all  the  best  agents  that  a  liberal  expendi- 
ture of  money  could  procure  for  my  assistance, 
I  have  not  been  able  to  get  a  glimpse  either  of 
her  or  her  footsteps.  I  am  not,  as  you  are  well 
aware,  to  be  easily  turned  aside  from  a  purpose 
which  I  have  thoroughly  at  heart ;  and  I  am  still 
occupied  in  a  search  that  most  other  men  would 
have  given  up  as  useless.  JIany  years  must  jjass 
before  I  will  relinquisli  my  endeavors  to  serve 
poor  Watchit  in  this  particular." 

"  He  is  then  acquainted  with  every  thing  that 
has  transpired?" 

"  O-of  c-course,  everything.  A-and  o-only 
last  mail  I  had  to  write  to  him  that  I  was  ajipar- 
ently  as  far  as  ever  from  being  able  to  give  him 
satisfactory  information  as  to  his  child  and  tlic 
mother.  I  expect  to  see  him  in  London  in  the 
course  of  the  next  year.  By-the-by,  I  heard  a 
short  time  since  in  the  city  a  good  account  of 
the  young  man  whom  this  unfortunate  girl  was 
engaged  to  marry." 

"What,  Julian  Gower?" 

"E-e.\actly.  Tli-those  m-mines  in  Soutli 
America  have,  under  his  management,  turned 
out  much  better  than  was  antici|)ated.  Two  of 
those  first  worked,  which  were  heavy  soui-ces  of 
loss  to  the  Company,  had  to  be  relinquished ; 
but  two  gold  mines,  which  were  subsequently 
purchased  at  Mr.  Gower's  advice,  have  i)rove(.l 
most  lucrative  to  the  workers.  He  has  been 
back  in  England  for  some  time,  and  is  closely 
connected  with  men  who  are  very  likely  to  help 
him  to  make  a  large  fortune." 

"Arthur,"  I  said,  earnestly,  "do  not  relax 
your  generous  efforts  to  discover  this  jjoor  wo- 
man. Disordered  as  her  intellect  is  on  one 
point,  she  is  insane  on  no  other ;  and  her  rare 
beauty  marks  her  out  as  a  prey  for  the  vicious. 
We  liave  a  duty  to  perform  to  her.  Her  ruin 
was  the  immediate  work  of  your  friend.  If  I 
had  not  directed  your  attention  to  her,  possibly 
she  would  at  this  time  be  the  wife  of  an  honora- 
ble man.  Indeed,  in  a  certain  way  her  down- 
fall was  my  work." 

"D-don't  1-let  such  a  painful  thought  gain 
infl  uence  over  you, "  Lord  Byfield  returned,  grave- 
ly ;  adding,  in  his  most  reassuring  manner,  "  But 
for  the  rest,  Olive,  rely  on  me.  As  soon  as  I  can 
discover  the  child  I  shall  be  most  glad  to  see  you 
extend  protection  to  it." 

Thus  the  subject  was  left. 

The  next  day  Lord  Byfield  departed  on  his 
visit,  and  I  was  left  at  Burstead  House  to  pon- 
der on  my  past  life,  to  search  the  secrets  of  my 


own  heart,  and  pray  God  of  his  mercy  to  make 
my  bereavement  a  means  of  good  to  myself  and 
others ! 

In  my  retirement  at  Biirstead  my  dear  aunt 
was  my  only  comjianion.  Her  placid  cheerful- 
ness was  the  only  kind  of  society  I  could  then 
endure ;  and  during  the  three  weeks  that  I  re- 
mained in  Hampshire,  before  rejoining  Lord  By- 
field  at  Fulham,  I  derivetl  great  comfort  from 
her  presence. 

My  mind  was  in  a  state  of  morbid  excitement 
— at  least,  so  my  ])hysieians  assured  me,  though 
I  concealed  from  them  much  of  my  disquiet,  and 
all  its  principal  causes.  My  chronic  sleepless- 
ness, which  no  narcotic  could  overcome,  they  at- 
tributed to  nerves  overwrougtit  by  grief  for  my 
dead  child.  My  fever,  my  constant  depression, 
and  a  lassitude  that  made  me,  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life,  understand  the  full  meaning  of  wea- 
riness, were  attributed  to  the  same  cause ;  and 
without  a  doubt  the  doctors'  diagnosis  was  not 
altogether  incorrect. 

JMental  perturbation  was  the  source  of  my  bod- 
ily suffering. 

And  God  alone,  who  of  his  infinite  mercy  af- 
flicted me,  knows  what  I  then  suftered. 

Was  it  not  enough  for  me  to  have  lost  my  dar- 
ling, my  only  babe — the  blood  of  my  blood,  the 
life  of  my  life?  It  was  far  from  enough.  It  was 
only  one  of  the  weights  (and  the  least  of  them) 
that  lay  heavy  on  my  soul.  A  voice  within  me 
that  I  could  not  silence  told  me  that  tJie  death 
of  my  child  was  a  direct  visitation  of  the  Al- 
mighty, to  punisli  me  for  my  worldliness — my 
forgctfidness  of  Him.  The  mother  who  has  lost 
a  child  can  form  a  faint  conception  of  my  agony. 
Let  her  imagine  the  child,  taken  by  the  Angel 
of  Death  from  her  loving  embrace,  to  have  been 
killed  by  her  own  hand — yes,  killed  by  her  own 
hand!  Let  her  imagine  (hat,  and  she  will  know 
something  of  my  horror  when  I  daily  stood  in 
Burstead  church,  and  heard  a  voice  say,  "Wo- 
man, your  sin  has  brought  death  on  your  own 
child !" 

When  the  voice  said  this  I  inwardly  asked  God 
for  mercy.  And  my  prayer  was  heard  ;  but  the 
mercy  was  shown  to  me  in  this  wise :  "  Wo- 
man!"  said  the  same  awful  voice,  "not  seven- 
teen months  since  a  frail,  erring  sister  implored 
you  to  pity  her,  and  you  answered  her  with 
scorn.  You  were  worse  than  deaf  to  her  cry. 
Now  ask  God  to  pity  you,  and  learn  what  it  is 
to  cry  aloud  to  Him  in  your  trouble,  and  to  find 
Him  deaf!" 

That  was  my  punishment  by  day. 

In  the  long,  weary  nights  my  punishment  was 
for  me  to  be  ever  falling  into  a  conscious  torpor 
(not  sleep) — to  think  that  my  babe  was  purring 
and  moving  in  tranquil  warmth  by  my  side — to 
turn  to  embi'ace  it,  and  then  to  find  it  as  it  was 
when  I  looked  at  it  for  the  last  time  beneath  the 
flowers.  Over  and  over  again  was  this  torture 
rejieated  every  night.  Each  time  I  fell  into  the 
ccmscious  torpor  I  was  sure  (as  I  could  be  certain 
of  any  thing)  that  my  child  was  living  and  lying 
close  to  me;  and  each  time  I  turned  to  fondle 
it  I  found  it  shadowy  and  still,  and  awful  to  look 
upon — even  as  I  had  left  it  in  the  sacred  church. 

But  the  nightly  scourging  of  my  soul  was  not 
yet  at  an  end.  When  this  liorrible,  ghastly  il- 
lusion had  been  repeated  again  and  again,  until 
my  mind  was  nearly  crazed,  I  used  to  throw  my 


120 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


licail  back  upon  my  jiillow  and  implore  the  Killer 
of  the  universe  to  save  me  tVom  madness.  Tlien 
came  tlic  sharpest  blow  oF  the  Avenger's  rod. 
TIten,  and  not  till  then,  silent  and  cahn,  and 
miserably  beautiful,  a  delicate  girl,  with  sorrow 
ill  her  earnest  eyes  and  cimtrition  in  her  tender 
fiice,  stood  before  me.  She  never  spoke.  It  was 
■mother  voice  that  sjioke.  "  See !  she,  like  yon, 
is  separated  from  her  child  !" 

Thus  it  was  that  I  was  taught  to  pity  an  erring 
sister. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A    A^KLCOME    HOME. 

With  reason  my  dear  aunt  Wilby  was  alarmed 
for  me. 

I  found  out  afterward  that  the  physician  in 
whom,  of  ihy  several  medical  attendants,  she  had 
the  greatest  contidence,  told  her  that  unless 
something  could  bo  effected  to  rouse  me  from 
tiie  fearful  condition  into  which  I  had  fallen, 
there  were  grounds  for  apprehending  an  evil 
even  worse  than  my  death— the  alienation  of  my 
reason. 

On  receiving  this  terribl ;  intimation  she  wrote 
to  my  husband  that  she  slioukl  induce  me  to  leave 
Burstead  House  and  proceed  to  Fiilham  without 
delay,  and  she  trusted  that  he  would  meet  us 
there. 

In  accordance  with  this  arrangement  we  quit- 
ted Hampshire  a  few  days  earlier  than  we  had 
intended,  and  journeyed  up  toward  town.  It 
was  a  wise  and  lucky  step,  for  events  were  trans- 
piring which  demanded  my  ])resence  in  London. 
My  physician  had  exjiressed  his  desire  to  procure 
for  me  a  violent  revulsion  of  feeling.  His  pre- 
scription was  a  good  one ;  and  it  was  about  to 
be  carried  out  by  circumstances  as  little  antici- 
pated by  myself  as  by  him. 

The  rod  of  the  Divine  displeasure  had  struck 
me,  and  I  had  kissed  it.  I  had  been  humbled — ■ 
eflfectually  humbled ;  and  had  my  spiritual  wel- 
fare been  the  only  olyoct  held  in  view  by  the  Pow- 
er who  had  chastened  me,  I  can  believe  that  he 
would  not  have  added  to  me  yet  another  humil- 
iating affliction.  But  for  the  happiness  of  others 
it  was  necessary  that  the  utter  vileness — the 
meanness  and  uncleanness  —  of  that  master 
whom  I  had  impiously  undertaken  to  serve 
should  be  yet  more  plainly  manifested. 

The  facts  to  which  I  must  draw  attention  still 
cause  me  such  pain  to  reHect  U])on,  that  I  may 
be  excused  if  I  hurry  over  them,  and  if  1  refer 
the  reader  for  the  particulars  of  one  portion  of 
my  punishment  to  those  published  archives  in 
which  they  arc  recorded. 

My  journey  up  to  town  was  marked  by  one 
occurrence  which  had  a  great  effect  ui)on  me  at 
the  time,  and  gave  me  a  jirevision  of  fresh  ca- 
lamity. At  one  of  the  jiosting-houses  on  the 
road  I  obtained  a  copy  of  the  Times,  and  read 
in  it  the  announeemeut  of  the  death  of  Sir 
George  Watcliit,  K.I}.,  in  British  India.  He 
liad  died  suddenly  (said  the  paper)  of  Asiatic 
i-holcra,  just  as  he  was  ])reparing  to  return  to 
England.  Poor  man!  I  thought  I  knew  well' 
the  motive  he  had  in  making  such  jircitarations 
fjr  a  return  to  his  native  land.  But  I  was 
wrong. 

What  was  the  effect  whicli  this   announce- 

\ 


menthadonme?  It  w.as  not  regret ;  fir  I  had 
only  seen  Sir  George  Watchit  once  or  twice  in 
the  whole  course  of  my  life,  and  all  that  I  knew 
of  him  (apart  from  his  brilliant  conduct  as  a  sol- 
dier) made  m2  hold  him  in  a  sentiment  closely 
resemljliug  detestation.  And  yet  when  I  read 
the  account  of  his  death  I  regarded  it  as  a  pri- 
vate and  individual  calamity  to  myself,  rather 
than  as  a  loss  to  the  public.  I  had  a  sense  that 
the  death  of  Etty  Tree's  seducer  had  taken  a 
power  from  me — that  a  crisis  in  my  life  was  ap- 
l)roaching  when  I  should  need  him,  and  require 
certain  information  that  he  of  all  men  was  ere 
his  death  best  qualified  to  give  me.  I  had  not 
existing  before  my  mind,  even  in  the  most  vague 
manner,  any  drama  in  which,  were  he  alive,  he 
could  be  useful  to  me.  Yet  a  presentiment,  al- 
most amounting  in  force  to  a  logical  conviction, 
toKl  me  that  the  days  were  fast  drawing  nigh, 
when  I  should  say,  "Would  that  Sir  George 
Watchit  were  alive,  that  I  might  consult  with 
him  !"  It  was  passing  strange  that  I  should  feel 
tliis  for  a  person  of  whom  I  knew  so  little  that 
was  good — so  much  that  was  ill ! 

On  arriving  at  Fulham  I  found  Lord  Byfield 
ready  to  receive  me.  I  was  so  prostrated  by  the 
fatigue  of  traveling  that  I  had  to  be  carried  rath- 
er than  led  into  the  villa.  My  appearance  was 
doubtless  harrowing  to  Lord  Byfield,  and  possi- 
bly he  felt  some  compunction  in  having  left  me 
in  Hampshire  in  so  jicrilous  a  state  of  health ; 
but  there  was  that  in  his  face  which  I  could  not 
attribute  to  concern  for  me,  although  I  had  not 
any  reason  to  question  the  sincerity  of  the  affec- 
tion and  admiration  he  always  expressed  for  me. 
Such  a  ghastly  aspect  of  defeat  and  anguish  I 
had  never  before  seen  in  mortal  face ;  and  it  im- 
pressed me  all  the  more  because  I  knew,  how- 
ever deeply  he  might  be  stirred,  he  was  just  the 
man  to  show  very  little  of  what  he  endured. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Arthur?"  I  inquired,  as 
soon  as  we  were  without  the  presence  of  a  third 
jierson. 

"N-nothing,  n-nothing,  Olive,  except  that  I 
have  been  very  fagged  with  business.  A-and 
t-this  afternoon  I've  had  a  bad  chill ;  but  1  have 
sent  for  my  pliysician  to  see  me  to-night." 

"  Somethiug  particular  has  ha]iiiencd,  Lord 
Byfield.      I  see  it  in  your  countenance." 

"  W-well  s-something  has  transinred  to  an- 
noy m:>,  which,  following  so  immediately  on  the 
news  of  poor  Watchit's  death,  has  quite  upset 
me.  Bit  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  to-morrow. 
To-night  you'll  have  enough  to  do  to  get  rest 
after  your  fatiguing  journey.  ISIoreover  I  can't 
stay  with  you  ten  minutes.  My  carriage  is  ready, 
and  I  must  be  driving  back  to  town." 

"Going  back  to  town  !    At  this  hour?"  I  said. 

'  •  Y-yes,  I-I  sh-shall  sleep  in  Piccadilly. 
Brownson  is  there  waiting  for  me  now.  I  have 
especial  business.  1  came  from  town  to  welcome 
you,  but  I  must  return  immediately." 
I  He  staid  with  me  a  few  minutes  longer,  vain- 
ly endeavoring  to  make  me  feel  at  my  ease,  and 
tlien  he  took  his. de])arturc. 

I  saw  him  once  again,  after  an  interval  of  two 
days ;  and  then  I  never  saw  him  till  (years  aft- 
erward) he  stood  before  me,  a  craven  culprit  im^ 
l)loring  me  to  shelter  him  from  ignominy. 


I 


OLIVE  BZ^AKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


121 


CHAPTER  VI. 

T  n  K     U  E  V  K  L  A  T  I  O  N. 

Three  hours  before  Lord  ByfieUl  welcomed 
me  oil  the  ciitraiice-ste]ts  of  Fiilluun  Villa  lie 
had  been  ligiiriiig  in  a  crowded  law-court  as  a 
witness  in  the  atrocious  cause  of  I'lTce  vs.  Le- 
compton.  I  need  not  recount  the  jiarticulars  of 
that  abominable  exhibition  of  perfidy  and  vice. 
If  any  woman  is  ignorant  of  it,  let  her  ask  her 
father,  or  brother,  or  husband  to  get  the  printed 
reports,  and  the  answer  tliat  will  meet  her  re- 
quest will  justify  me  for  declining  to  give  an  ab- 
stract of  the  proceedings. 

I  have  only  to  concern  myself  with  Lord  By- 
field's  part  in  those  transactions ;  and  of  that 
part  I  will  speak  in  the  fewest  possible  words. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that,  under  cross-examina- 
tion on  a  ]ioint  that  came  u\)  incidentally  in  that 
trial,  his  lordship  was  compelled  to  admit  facts 
proving  to  demonstration  tliat  wliila  I  was  down 
in  Hampshire  nursing  my  dying  child  he  was  in 
J  town  carrying  on  a  vile  intrigue  with  a  friend's 
/  wife  ;  and  furtiier,  that  even  at  the  time  during 
'"  which  our  babe  lay  dead  in  Burstead  House  he 
was  so  amusing  himself.  Tlie  counsel  rightly 
and  boldly  (but,  oh  so  crueUy  to  me  !)  drew  Lord 
Byfield's  attention  to  the  dates  of  two  occurren- 
ces which  he  admitted,  and  asked  if  his  recent 
private  afHiction,  with  which  "society"  was  fa- 
miliar through  the  jiublic  papers,  had  not  visited 
him  at  a  period  just  between  those  two  dates. 
In  court  Lord  Byfield  declared  on  his  honor 
that,  though  his  infant  son  lay  dead  at  the  time 
mentioned,  the  connsel's  inference  was  as  wrong 
as  it  was  odious,  for  he  was  nnaware  of  the  fatal 
termination  of  his  child's  illness  at  the  time  of 
the  last  occurrence  to  which  the  learned  coun- 
sel directed  attention.  It  was  not  necessary  for 
Lord  Byfield  to  have  made  any  reply  to  the  bar- 
rister's question  ;  but,  to  save  his  rcpntation  from 
one  black  stigma,  he  volunteered  this  statement. 
And  /,  his  wife,  knew  that  the  statement  icas  ut- 
terly false  ! 

I  said  nothing  to  my  aunt  that  evening.  She 
was  not  observant  of  trifling  matters,  and  the 
unexpected  departure  of  Lord  Byfield  from  Ful- 
ham  immediately  after  my  return  drew  from  her 
hardly  one  expression  of  astonishment.  The 
intelligence  of  that  day's  scene  in  Westminster 
Hall  was  already  an  affair  of  goss'p  with  the 
servants.  Their  faccs»told  me  that  they  were 
occupied  with  an  unusual  excitement,  and  I  can 
readily  believe  that  my  countenance  revealed  to 
them  that  I  had  cause  for  imeasiness  beyond  my 
physical  debility  and  sorrow  for  my  child.  But 
my  dear  aunt  Wilby  detected  nothing  in  them 
to  arouse  suspicion  in  her  mind  ;  and  though  she 
thought  me  more  than  usually  nervous,  she  attrib- 
uted my  restlessness  and  eager  irritability  of  man- 
ner to  the  fatigue  I  had  suffered  in  my  journey. 

I  dined  at  eight  o'clock,  with  the  intention  of 
retiring  to  rest  early. 

•  As  soon  as  my  almost  nntasted  dinner  was  at 
an  end  Dr.  Chirges  was  announced,  the  kind 
man  having,  at  my  request,  come  from  town  to 
see  how  I  had  borne  my  journey.  As  a  man  of 
society  and  a  jihysician  he  had  undergone  a  long 
training  to  command  his  countenance,  but  he 
failed  to  conceal  from  me  that  he  too  knew  that 
which  he  desired  to  hide  from  me. 

"Dr.  Clarges,"  I  said,  when  he  had  felt  my 


pulse,  and.  after  making  a  few  professional  in- 
([uirik's,  was  about  to  leave  me,  "what  is  it  that 
makes  you,  as  well  as  my  servants,  look  at  me 
so  strangely?" 

"  My  dei.ir  Lady  Byfield,"  he  answered,  "you 
are  nervous.  You  should  control  yourself.  You 
may  not  let  your  imagination  overpower  your 
judgment.  Sometimes  it  is  the  duty  of  a  ])hy- 
sician  to  act  the  jiart  of  a  moral  teacher.  It  is 
my  duty  to  do  so  now." 

He  said  this  very  kindly  as  well  as  gravely, 
but  he  did  not  im])ose  u])on  me. 

"Doctor,"!  answered,  gravely,  "I  know  as 
well  as  you  can  tell  me  the  peril  that  my  over- 
excited mind  subjects  me  to.  I  know  what  that 
sorrowful  and  solemn  voice  of  yours  means. 
You  fear  for  my  reason,  and,  doctor,  you  have 
good  grounds  for  your  terrible  apprehensions. 
I  have  heard  it  said  that  the  insane  are  familiar 
with  the  first  symptoms  of  their  malady  long  be- 
fore their  dearest  friends  discern  them.  Expe- 
rience tells  me  that  such  is  the  case.  For  nights 
])ast  I  have  recognized  the  fearful  fact  that  my 
reason  is  tottering ;  and,  doctor,  if  something  be 
not  speedily  done  to  stay  the  morbid  influences 
that  tyrannize  over  me,  it  will  be  your  s.id  office 
to  treat  me  as  one  who  is  mentally  afflicted." 

I  saw  that  these  words  had  a  powerful  effect 
niKin  him.  He  ])aused  in  his  movement  toward 
the  door  when  I  commenced,  and  as  I  proceeded 
he  ]iierced  mc  with  a  most  peculiar  scrutiny — a 
gaze  so  full  of  commiseration  and  sympathy  that 
it  did  not  frigjiten  me,  although  I  knew  it  was 
taking  note  of  every  sign  of  my  countenance 
that  could  su])port  my  awful  apprehensions  for 
the  stability  of  my  mind. 

"Lady  Byfield,"  he  said,  returning  to  his 
seat,  "I  won't  leave  yon  quite  yet.  We  must 
talk  together  a  little  longer." 

"You  know  too  well,  doctor,"  I  continued, 
"  the  fidelity  of  nervous  susceptibilities  to  laugh 
at  me  as  though  I  were  a  child.  Beyond  the 
agony  I  have  undergone  in  Hampshire,  in  nurs- 
ing my  child,  whom  you  vainly  endeavored  to 
save  by  the  prompt  ex  jrcise  of  your  benevolent 
art,  I. have  been  weighed  down  by  a  conscious- 
ness of  the  ill  of  my  past  life,  and  by  an  over- 
whelming sense  of  an  urgent  calamity,  making 
a  midnight  gloom  of  the  near  future.  A  vague 
prevision  of  inqiending  catastrophe  has  been  one 
source  of  my  unrest.  I  am  sure  that  that  dread- 
ed calamity  has  fallen  upon  mc.  Why  has  Lord 
Byfield  left  me  suddenly  on  this  night  of  all  the 
nights  of  our  life  ?  Why  do  my  servants  eye  me  ■ 
with  pity  and  curiosity  ?  Why  do  you  thus  scru- 
tinize me  ?" 

"Lady  Byfield,"  said  the  doctor,  "if  I  were 
to  tell  you  that  circumstances  have  transpired 
which  are  likely  to  exercise  an  injurious  influ- 
ence on  Lord  Byfield's  public  position,  and  that 
he  is  greatly  disturbed  thereat,  how  would  you 
receive  my  intelligence?" 

"As  a  relief — just  as  far  as  the  information 
should  be  complete.  Dear  doctor,  tell  mc  all 
you  know.  You  know  my  attachment  to  you 
for  your  kind  attention  years  since  to  my  father, 
and  for  your  loving  care  to  my  child.  You 
know  that  I  would  not  trick  you  into  doing  that 
which  would  injure  one  of  your  patients — even 
though  I  be  that  patient.  Tell  me  all,  and  I 
shall  sleep  soundly.  I  shall  need  no  opiate  but 
the  intelligence." 


122 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


Dr.  Clarges  was  a  wise,  tender,  and  courageous 
man. 

"All  that  I  can  tell  you.  Lady  Byfield,"  he 
said,  "is  in  the  evening  jjajiers.  One  of  them  I 
have  in  my  pocket,  and  1  will  let  you  have  it  on 
certiiin  conditions.  It  is  better  that  yon  should 
know  now  wliat  yon  will  be  sure  to  learn  to-mor- 
row ;  for  I  am  with  you  to  watch  the  effect  it  has 
over  you." 

"What  are  your  conditions?" 

"  First,  when  I  give  the  ])aper  into  your  hand 
and  leave  the  room,  you  take  sixty  dro])S  of  your 
cordial  tincture  in  a  glass  of  cold  water,  having 
yourself  measured  the  dro])s.  Then  you  may 
read  the  report  of  a  trial  which  you  will  have  no 
difficulty  in  finding  in  the  columns.  That  done 
(and  here  comes  my  second  condition),  you  are 
to  lock  the  paper  uj)  in  one  of  the  drawers  of  that 
table.  Then  (here  is  my  third  condition)  you 
ring  for  your  maid,  and  go  straight  to  bed. 
What  say  you  to  these  conditions?" 

"I  ]3romise  to  fulfill  them." 

"And  now,  Lady  Byfield,"  the  doctor  said, 
with  increased  gravity,  rising  as  he  s]iokc,  "at- 
tend to  me.  Remember  u^liat  you  owe  to  me.  If 
the  contents  of  that  paper  should  have  any  very 
prejudicial  effect  on  your  healtli,  society  will 
hold  me  accountable  for  it.  I  take  a  heavj' — I 
am  afraid  I  should  say  an  immoral — responsibil- 
ity in  showing  j'ou,  tints  unauthorized,  this  ac- 
count of  proceedings  which  must  greatly  disturb 
yon.  But  I  take  the  risk  on  myself,  in  tlie  be- 
lief that  I  am  acting  mercifully  to  you.  Now, 
then,  bear  in  mind  the  interests  of  your  father's 
old  friend." 

"You  will  not  leave  the  hottse,  dear  doctor?" 
I  said. 

' '  No ;  I  will  sit  for  an  hour  or  so  by  the  li- 
brary fire.  I'll  tell  the  butler  to  bring  me  a  glass 
of  that  Burgundy  I  used  to  drink  here  years  ago, 
when  I  was  a  young  man  looking  for  patients, 
and  your  kind  father  gave  me  his  friendship. 
And  when  I  have  had  a  cup  of  coft'ee  after  my 
wine,  in  all  probability  your  maid  will  come  and 
tell  me  that  you  wish  to  speak  to  me  before  go- 
ing to  sleep." 

"Thank  you,  my  very  dear  friend,"  I  said. 

"God  bless  you,  dear,"  he  said,  omitting  my 
title.  I  noticed  the  omission,  and  was  greatly 
affected  by  it. 

"Oh,  ray  dear  friend,"  I  observed,  "j^ou  do 
right  to  speak  so  to  me." 

These  words  pointed  out  to  him  the  singular- 
ity of  his  last  address — a  singularity  which,  till 
I  spoke,  he  had  not  observed. 

"My  tlear,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile,  "  my 
white  head  renders  an  apology  unnecessary." 

And  with  that  the  doctor  left  me. 

Ere  two  hours  had  elafised  I  summoned  the 
doctor  to  my  bedroom,  and  on  his  entering  I 
rai.sed  my  head  from  my  pillow  to  say, 

"Dear  Doctor  Clarges,  feel  my  pulse." 

He  did  so,  and  scarcely  had  my  wrist  rested 
in  his  hand  when  I  saw  a  smile  of  satisfaction 
in  his  humane  face. 

"That  is  well !"  he  said.  "You  will  need  no 
oi)iafe  to-night." 

"No,  I  sli.all  not  need  it.  Your  medicine  has 
cured  me.     My  awful  dreams  will  not  return." 

"  And,  doctor,"  I  continued,  after  half  a  min- 
ute's silence,  "you  must  be  my  friend  and  iid- 
Yiscr  again.     You  arc  my  trustee.     I  shall  be- 


gin again  to  call  you  guardian.  The  good  white 
head  will  think  for  me.     Will  it  not?" 

"Heaven  protect  you,  Olive!"  replied  my  old 
friend. 

"  Sleep  in  the  house  to-night,  dear  doctor,"  I 
added.  "I  am  sure  I  shall  go  to  tranquil  rest ; 
but  should  I  wake  up,  I  shall  feel  hajipier  if  I 
know  you  are  under  my  roof." 

And  then,  when  he  had  pressed  my  hand 
warmly,  he  left  me  for  a  second  time. 

I  did  not  disturb  Dr.  Clarges  in  the  night.  A 
profound  slumber  came  over  me,  and  ere  I  woke, 
just  as  the  gray  dawn  began  to  creep  through 
the  cedars  in  the  garden,  I  had  a  vision  of  the 
"mad  girl,"  unlike  the  visicms  of  previous  nights. 
Patient,  gentle,  beautiful  as  ever,  but  with  a  new 
tenderness  of  look  for  me,  she  stood  at  the  foot 
of  my  bed  saying,  "Olive  Blake,  you  will  help 
me,  and  love  mc  ;"  and  as  I  started  in  my  bed 
and  threw  out  my  arms  to  embrace  her  I  woke, 
and  found  myself  alone. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


PARTED    FOREVER. 


During  the  two  next  days,  while  all  London 
and  all  the  country  were  busy  discussing  the 
new  esclandre,  I  heard  nothing  of  Lord  Byfield's 
movements.  On  the  third  day  he  wrote  me  a 
brief  letter,  soliciting  me  to  give  him  an  inter- 
view. Dr.  Clarges  was  at  Fulham  when  this 
note  arrived,  and  I  consulted  with  him  ere  I 
sent  back  to  Lord  Byfield  by  his  messenger  a 
note  to  the  effect  that  I  did  not  wish  again  to 
see  him,  that  I  was  resolved  never  again  to  live 
with  him  as  his  wife,  but  that  if  he  wished  to 
give  me  the  pain  of  bidding  me  "farewell"  in 
person,  I  would  give  him  an  inten-iew  during 
the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  in  the  jiresence  of 
my  old  friend  and  guardian.  Dr.  Clarges.  I 
thought  this  note  would  preclude  him  from  ap- 
pearing at  Fulham.  But  I  was  mistaken.  Ere 
the  close  of  the  next  afternoon  he  came. 

He  did  not  know  how  completely  his  degrading 
influence  over  me  had  vanished.  iSubducd  in 
manner,  pale,  and  with  his  dejection  rendered 
more  imijressive  by  the  mourning  he  wore  for 
our  child,  he  approached  me  res])ectfully,  as  a 
stranger  m'ight.  I  looked  at  him,  as  many 
montlis  before  I  had  regarded  "the  mad  girl ;" 
and  like  her,  he  stojiped  at  a  distance  from  me. 

He  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  im])lorcd  me 
to  i)Ut  a  generous  construction  on  the  events 
which  so  justly  incensed  me.  He  even  wanted 
mo  to  believe  that  his  grief,  running  into  dis- 
traction— his  mad  despair  at  witnessing  the  mys- 
terious decay  of  our  child — had  been  one  cause 
of  his  vile  and  unnatural  wickedness.  He  tried 
to  rekindle  within  my  breast  the  dead  embers  of 
that  fire  of  worldly  ambition  which  he  had  lit. 
He  even  ilarcd  to  "remind  me  that  v.c  might  rea- 
sonably h()))e  for  more  children  to  perpetuate  our 
wealth"  and  miserable  dignity.  Every  chord  of 
my  breast  he  touched,  by  pathetic  allusiini,  or 
subtle  flattery,  or  base  suggestion  of  personal  in- 
terest, but  no  tone  or  note  could  his  skillful 
handling  win  from  it.  | 

At  length  he  ])auscd,  and  I  said,  coldly  and    < 
firndy,  as  if  I  were  passing  sentence  on  him  : 

"  You  have  come  here,  Lord  Byfield,  to  serve 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


123 


your  own  selfish  ends,  careless  how  innch  your 
presence  mit;;ht  pain  me,  so  long  as  you  won  the 
stakes  at  a  cruel  game.  But  so  completely  sev- 
ered am  1  from  you,  that  I  do  not  even  feel  in- 
sulted by  seeing  you  in  this  room.  The  anguish 
and  the  humiliation  of  this  interview  arc  yours, 
not  mine.  My  note  of  yesterday  communicated 
to  you  my  resolution  for  the  future,  as  far  as 
our  unfortunate  marriage  tie  is  concerned.  You 
wished  to  liear  me  repeat  my  resolution  by  word 
of  moutli,  thinking  that  to  see  you  would  make 
me  falter.  You  are  mistaken.  You  have  dared 
to  suggest  that  a  future  still  lies  before  us,  in 
which  we  might  play  togetiier  your  game  of  un- 
hallowed ambition.  You  even  tlared  to  hint  that 
we  might  yet  have  children  to  hand  your  dis- 
graced name  to  posterity.  Listen  to  my  answer. 
This  is  your  punishment.  You  shall  never  have 
a  child  to  bear  your  basely  won  honors.  I  know 
not  what  power  the  law  may  give  you  to  demand 
my  return  to  your  roof,  nor  what  penalty  I  may 
undergo  for  refusing  to  obey  such  an  order.  But 
I  am  resolved  never  again  to  bear  your  title  or 
your  name.  From  this  time  you  will  be  a  stran- 
ger to  me.  Dr.  Clarges,  my  father's  dear  friend 
and  my  guardian,  is  here  to  protect  me  in  your 
presence." 

Vulgar  in  his  vices  and  crimes,  Lord  Byfield 
was  vulgar  in  nothing  else. 

He  was  not  a  man  to  turn  on  the  woman  he 
had  wronged  with  violence  of  language. 

Bowing  to  Dr.  Clarges,  he  said,  "Sir,  I  rec- 
ognize the  justice  and  dignity  of  all  that  has 
passed  tiie  lips  of  this  lady,  who  has  put  herself 
under  your  protection.  I  have.  Sir,  only  to  as- 
sure you  that  I  will  never  by  any  act  tlisturb  the 
lady  I  have  already  so  deeply  wronged,  or  ven- 
ture to  exert  any  power  with  which  I  am  invested 
for  her  discomfort.'' 

Having  said  this,  he  quietly,  and  with  a  dig- 
nity of  bearing  which  I  could  not  do  otherwise 
than  respect,  departed. 

As  the  wheels  of  his  carriage  rolling  down 
the  drive  reached  my  ear,  I  said,  "Now,  Dr. 
Clarges,  I  am  no  longer  Lady  Byfield.  Once 
more  I  am  Olive  Blake  of  Fulham  Villa." 


CHAl'TEIl  VHI. 

A     N  K  W     I-  U  It  P  O  S  E. 

My  health  of  mind  and  body  returned  to  me 
rapidly  ;  for  bereaved  as  I  was  of  my  child,  I 
had  now  a  new  purpose  in  life — a  good  work 
to  accomplish ;  and  I  was  soon  busy  devising 
measures  for  eftecting  that  which  the  voice  of 
my  heart  assured  me  it  was  in  my  power  to 
achieve. 

"And  now,  Dr.  Clarges,"  I  said,  when  I  had 
told  my  physician  and  guardian  all  the  story 
of  my  wedded  life,  "you  have  heard  the  narra- 
tive of  Olive  Blake's  sin  and  repentamzc.  Yoa 
must  now  aid  her  in  a  work  of  atonement.  I  rely 
on  you  to  assist  me." 

"What  would  you  be  doing,  Olive?" 

"  I  must  discover  Etty  Tree.  'The  mad  girl' 
and  her  child  must  live  under  my  protection.  If  \ 
she  be  7nad,  the  more  need  has  she  of  my  care. 
If  siie  be  wicked,  the  more  need  has  she  of  a 
Ciiristian  woman's  sympathy.  But,  doctor,  the 
more  I  reflect  upon  the  pasr,  the  more  convinced 
I  am  she  is  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  The 
man  who  has  ivronged  me  %vas  capable  oj' lu ronging 
her.  She  said  that  he  was  her  husband,  and  / 
believe  her!''' 

"My  dear  young  friend,"  said  the  doctor,  se- 
riously, "  do  you  see  all  that  that  belief  im- 
plies?" 

"I  do.  Dr.  Clarges,"  I  answered,  a  shudder 
running  through  me  as  I  spoke — "I  do  see  all  it 
implies.     And  if  my  dear  baby  were  alive  I  fear      / 
that  I  should  be  so  wicked  as  still  to  wish  to 
think  the  worst  of  this  miserable  Etty  Tree." 

The  doctor  was  silent. 

' '  The  work  of  my  life  shall  be  to  seek  her  out 
through  the  wide  world.  If  she  is  steeped  in 
wickedness,  my  tears  shall  win  her  to  repentance. 
If  she  is  sick  in  mind,  I,  who  so  recently  almost 
knew  the  anguish  of  alienated  reason,  will  cherish 
her.  If  she  has  been  wronged,  by  God's  help  I 
will  do  her  justice." 

"Olive  Blake,"  said  Dr.  Clarges,  "it  is  noble 
worl^ou  propose  to  yourself.  I  will  help  you  to 
the  best  of  my  power." 


BOOK    VII. 


SUSPICIOX  :— BEING    PART    THE    FOURTH    OF    MISS 

TREE'S    NOTE-BOOK. 


TABITHA 


CHAPTER  I. 

FRIENDSHIP,   AND    SOMETHING    MOKE. 

Julian  and  I  became  friends  again.  Fully 
f  occupied  as  manager  of  an  important  bank,  and 
as  a  civil  engineer  of  extensive  practice,  he  still 
found  time  to  be  a  frequent  caller  in  Marchioness 
Street.  Truthful,  earnest,  and  simple  as  ever, 
the  world  had  changed  him  only  in  giving  him 
greater  experience,  knowledge,  and  confidence. 
He  was  to  me  the  Julian  of  years  long  since  in 
the  old  "corn  country."  Business  was  with  him 
a  noble  pursuit,  followed  in  accordance  with  high 
principles ;  and  of  the  ample  wealth  it  brought 
him  a  large  portion  was  devoted  to  works  of  un- 


seen benevolence.  Only  one  feature  of  his  life 
made  me  sad — he  had  not  married.  I  speak  the 
sim])le  truth  when  I  say  that  this  fact  filled  me 
at  first  with  lively  sorrow  ;  but  ere  long  I  was 
taught  to  look  on  this,  as  on  every  other  circum- 
stance which  was  a  consequence  of  his  own  will, 
with  thankfulness. 

We  became  friends  again,  and  more  than 
friends. 

Reverting  to  his  life  in  America,  and  the  effect 
which  the  melancholy  intelligence  of  Etty's  de- 
parture from  Laughton  had  had  upon  him,  he 
told  me  that  which  greatly  surprised  and  atfect- 
ed  me.  In  her  last  tCTrible  communication  to 
him  Etty  not  only  told  him  that  she  could  not 


I 


124 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


be  his  wife,  but  also  infi)rmcd  liiiii  of  a  discov- 
ery she  had  made  without  my  knowledge  ;  at 
least,  s/tc  said  her  discovery  w;us  cli'ectcd  witliout 
my  knowledge  or  siis]jicion.  With  a  pathetic 
appeal  to  him  to  ])ardon  iier  faithlessness  and 
cruelty,  she  said  that  she  should  never  have  made 
liim  a  good  wife;  tiiat  siie  had  never  really  loved 
him,  further  than  having  her  childish  imagin- 
ation taught  by  me  to  magnify  his  line  qualities. 
And  then,  in  mad,  imi)etuous  terms,  she  told  iiim 
the  secret  of  my  life,  which  I  had  been  at  snch 
pains  to  conceal  from  hei-,  and  which  I  would 
have  died  rather  than  have  revealed  to  him. 
"Oh,  Julian!"  she  concluded  that  terrible  let- 
ter which  I  had  seen  her  in  the  act  of  penning, 
"what  a  curse  my  beauty  lias  been  to  you  and 
to  her,  as  well  as  myself!  If  it  had  not  been  for 
that,  you  would  have  loved  her,  and  W(juld  be 
ere  long  a  happy  husband,  and  she  would  be  saved 
from  the  gloom  which  only  those  women  experi- 
ence who  love  throughout  life  without  return. 
I  know  well  the  j)ast  can  not  be  undone.  In 
that  is  my  chief  agony." 

Julian  did  not  tell  me  this  till  he  had  for  sev- 
eral months  been  in  the  habit  of  calling  on  me 
in  iVIarchioness  Street.  It  was  not  till  he  had, 
with  exquisite  delicacy  of  consideration  for  my 
feelings,  caused  me  to  perceive  that  he  hoped  I 
might,  in  spite  of  the  jjast,  consent  one  day  to 
be  his  wife.  It  was  not  till  I  had  begged  him 
not  to  cherisli  such  a  wisli,  that  as  a  last  resource 
of  argument  (brought  forward  to  induce  me  to 
change  my  resolution  of  remaining  single  till  the 
end  of  my  life)  he  told  me  what  had  been  famil- 
iar to  him  for  years.  "Tibby,"  he  said,  "I 
know  you  love — that  j'ou  loved  me,  long  ere  I 
could  appreciate  your  unselfish  devotion,  even 
if  I  had  suspected  it.  Etty  herself  was  my  in- 
formant. Oh,  let  the  words  of  the  sister  we  have 
both  loved  so  dearly  prevail  on  you  to  alter  your 
decision  !  Listen  to  her  last  words  (]jenned  after 
you  had  heard  her  voice  for  the  last  time) — they 
sanction  our  marriage.  You  can  not  disregard 
them.  They  are  to  yon  her  dying  request. 
Obey  them — in  mercy  to  me,  obey  them  !• 

Tins  was  the  story  of  his  love  for  me.  After 
years  of  toil  had  healed  the  wound  inflicted  by 
Etty's  misbehavior,  and  he  was  able  again  to 
look  out  cheerfully  upon  the  future,  he  had  re- 
solved never  to  marry  any  one  but  me.  He  had 
several  times  gone  down  to  *'thc  corn  country" 
— to  Farnham  Cobb,  and  Beachey,  and  Laugh- 
ton — to  seek  intelligence  of  me ;  but  unable  to 
gain  a  clew  to  my  retreat,  he  had  relinquished 
his  search  in  a  confidence  that,  if  Pi-ovidcnce 
thought  it  right  for  him  to  have  sweet  domestic 
joys,  the  care  of  a  wife,  and  the  endearments  of 
children,  he  would  one  day  be  brought  to  me. 
"Oh,  Tibby!"  he  said,  pitifidly,  "j'ou  can  not 
be  so  cruel  and  ungenerous  as  to  make  the  sor- 
row of  years  gone-by  a  reason  for  subjecting  me 
to  still  more  acute  sorrow  in  the  years  to  come." 

This  appeal  overcame  me,  and  I  said,  "Julian, 
I  love  you  as  I  ever  did,  with  all  the  strength 
of  a  heart  that  yearns  for  love.  You  know  it. 
When  my  heart  first  became  your  servant  you 
wx'r:  poorer  even  than  myself,  and  now  you  are 
rich  and  powerful  I  feel  for  you  no  otherwise. 
Wliether  I  l)e  your  wife  or  not,  I  shall  always 
love  you  more  than  my  own  life,  more  than — " 
I  tried  to  sjieak  finihcr,  but  I  could  not. 
My  dear  old  grandfatiicr,  and  the  child  Etty, 


with  her  wayward  mirth,  came  before  my  eves, 
and  the  garden  of  the  old  College,  and  the  gal- 
lant boy  Julian,  so  strong,  and  generous,  and 
tender-hearted,  so  bold  of  heart  and  light  of 
tongue!  they  all  came  before  me,  and  I  could 
only  sob  out  to  the  noblest  man  this  mightv  En- 
gland of  ours  ever  gave  birth  to,  "I'll  be  a"  good 
wife  to  you,  Julian.  If  God  will  help  me  in  my 
l)rosi)eriiy  as  he  has  comforted  me  in  my  sorrow 
— I  will  be  a  good  wife  to  you." 

So  I  consented  to  be  Julian's  wife ;  but  we 
agreed  not  to  marry  till  two  full  years  had  elapsed 
from  the  time  when  we  met,  aftei'  our  long  sepa- 
ration, before  Etty's  memorial  at  Ilighgate. 

And  my  anticipations  of  the  gladness  before 
me  in  the  coming  days  were  without  a  cloud  to 
darken  my  serene  cheerfulness.  It  was  no  pain 
to  me  to  think  of  my  dear  sister.  Shame,  anger, 
humiliation,  were  gone — I  had  outlived  them  ; 
and  that  strong  confidence  in  the  Divine  love, 
of  which  I  have  already  spoken,  caused  me  to 
forget  all  the  terrible  features  of  her  death,  en- 
abling me  to  think  of  her  as  one  of  those  who 
are  forgiven  and  arc  hapjiy  forever. 

Marchioness  Street  no  longer  seemed  to  me 
dingy  and  full  of  gloom.  I  had  no  longer  to 
count  the  minutes  on  the  clock,  in  the  ho]:c  that 
some  petty  daily  duty  would  come  swiftly  and 
win  me  from  brooding  over  my  wretchedness. 
Dr.  Merrion  smiled  his  satisfaction  with  mv  iil- 
tjved  looks,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the  Committee 
and  the  lady  visitors  of  the  hospital  spoke  among 
themselves  of  my  changed  appearance.  The 
nurses  told  me,  after  my  marriage,  that  I  used 
to  sing  snatches  of  old  songs  in  those  days,  not 
only  to  amuse  the  sick  children,  but  as  I  went 
about  the  hospital  by  myself,  up  the  staircases, 
and  along  the  wide  passages  of  "  The  Doctor" 
and  "Grace  Temj)le."  But  1  think  that  in  this 
the  kind-hearted  w'omen  must  have  been  amus- 
ing themselves  with  an  exercise  of  the  imagin- 
ation. It  is  so  very  ridiculous  and  improbable  a 
thing  that  the  matron  of  a  hospital  should  sing 
about  the  staircases  ! 

But  my  lightness  of  heart  by  no  means  disin- 
clined mc  to  continue  the  discharge  of  those  duties 
which  had  once  been  my  comforters.  I  rose  and 
worked  just  as  heretofore,  out  during  the  two 
years  intervening  between  my  restoration  to 
Julian  and  my  marriage  I  never  read  a  single 
novel ;  I  was  so  hapijy  that  I  did  not  need  to  be 
taken  out  of  myself. 

In  place  of  my  old  moderate  indulgence  in 
novel-reading,  I  allowed  myself  the  recreation 
of  longer  evening  walks  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Marchioness  Street,  in  Gray's  Inn  Gardens,  and 
Guildford  Street,  and  Russell  Square.  After 
ilark,  when  the  wind  was  blowing  over  the  dry 
pavements,  I  used  to  trip  and  race  along,  thinking 
to  myself  of  all  that  was  going  to  hajipen.  My 
ste))  had  altered  very  nuich  ;  there  was  a  spring 
in  the  sole  of  my  foot,  snch  as  I  had  never  in  all 
my  life  experienced  before ;  doubtless  I  had  it  in 
my  childhood,  but  the  rutted  lanes  of  the  corn 
country  were  not  such  sjiringy  cxercising-ground 
as  the  pavements  round  dear  t)ld  Marchioness 
Street. 

One  bright  starlight  evening  shortly  before  my 
marriage  I  was  out  for  a  trot  after  a  hard  day's 
work,  when  I  hail  a  singular  rencontre  with  a 
lady  I  bad  met  before,  which  I  may  as  well  men- 
tion here.     I  had  been  for  a  turn  in  Gray's  Inn 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


125 


Gardens.  But  somehow  the  gardens  hud  lately 
become  too  grave  and  monotonous  for  nie  ;  I 
preferred  the  briglit  gas-jets  over  tlie  hucksters' 
stalls  in  Red  Lion  Street  and  the  brilliantly  il- 
luminated shojis  in  Lamb's  thoroughfare.  So 
bidding  my  old  friend  the  porter  of  the  north 
gate  farewell,  I  left  the  gardens,  and  darted 
about  the  pavements,  as  quiek  a  little  body  as 
was  to  be  seen  in  black  habiliments  that  evening 
in  the  law  neighborhood.  I  am  sure  1  couldn't 
recall  my  exact  course,  but  I  know  I  was  passing 
along  Guildford  Street,  when  I  had  the  sensa- 
tion tliat  I  was  followed  by  a  tall  lady,  who,  like 
me,  wore  a  veil,  and  for  pedestrian  achievements 
had  certainly  the  advantage  over  me  in  respect 
of  length  of  limb.  I  was  positive  that  she  was 
tracking  me ;  she  had  kept  close  upon  my  heels 
all  round  Russell  Square,  and  now,  as  I  walked 
past  the  gate  of  the  Foundling  Hospital,  and 
looked  back  over  my  shoulder,  the  same  slight 
figure  was  behind  me. 

I  turned  to  the  left  in  quiet  Caroline  vStrect, 
and,  slackening  pace,  said  to  myself,  "  Well,  if 
she  wishes  to  speak  to  me  she  can  catch'  me 
hero." 

I  was  just  entering  Mocklcnburgli  Square, 
when,  sure  enough,  the  figure  came  close  up  to 
me  and  addressed  me  by  name. 

"  Good-evening,  Miss  Tree.  I  saw  you  cross- 
ing Russell  Square,  and  I  have  followed  yon, 
half  resolved  to  address  you,  and  half  fearing  to 
oi!'end  you  by  intruding  on  the  solitude  of  your 
evening  ramble." 

"Oh,  pray  do  not  apologize,"  I  answered; 
"  wliat  do  you  wish  to  say  to  me?" 

"  Do  you  not  remember  me?" 

"  No,  indeed  I  do  not.     What  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  did  not  say  you  knew  my  name." 

"Well,"  I  rej)lied,  laugliiTig  slightly,  "it  is  so 
d.uk  here  that  I  really  can  not  recognize  your 
bl.ick  veil." 

Her  voice,  however,  told  me  that  she  was  a 
lady,  and  there  was  something  in  it  which  made 
me  think  I  ought  to  know  it. 

"  You  are  going  to  be  married,  I  hear,"  con- 
tinued the  lady. 

"How  did  j-ou  learn  that?"  I  said,  starting, 
for  I  had  kept  my  approaching  marriage  a  ])ro- 
fouiul  secret,  even  from  the  Committee,  and  I 
km'w  that  Julian  had  exercised  the  same  reserve 
to  his  friends. 

"Never  mind  how  I  learned  it:  you  are  go- 
iuj;  to  be  married  shortly." 

I  remained  silent. 

"You  have  resigned  your  situation  at  the 
Hosjiital  for  Sick  Children.  To-morrow  a  new 
matron  will  arrive  for  you  to  introduce  her  to 
the  duties  of  her  office  before  you  yourself  leave." 

"  Why  do  you  tell  me  what  I  know  so  well, 
and  what  you  might  learn  from  any  one  of  the 
hospital  Committee?" 

"To  show  you  that  I  am  acquainted  with 
your  movements,"  was  her  answer,  made  with 
the  greatest  possible  composure. 

"But  these  movements  of  mine,  as  you  call 
them,  arc  no  mystery  to  any  one  acquainted  with 
that  institution,  which  is  a  public  one.  Possibly 
you  subscrilte  to  the  charity  yourself." 

"  I  do.  But  I  know  more  about  your  move- 
ments." 

"  Indeed  I"  I  replied,  inquiringly,  for  my  cu- 
riosity was  roused ;  and  eccentric  as  this  strange 


lady's  address  was,  her  voice  satisfied  me  that 
she  was  a  lady,  and  that  in  conversing  with  her 
I  was  guilty  of  no  imprudence  that  Julian  would 
disa])])rove. 

"  You  are  going  to  live  in  that  beautiful  place, 
'The  Cedars,'  on  Highgate  Hill.  It  will  be  a 
change  to  you  after  Marchioness  Street.  You'll 
be  mistress  of  a  noble  residence.  Why  its  last 
occupant  was  a  peeress!" 

"You  do  know  something  of  my  'move- 
ments,' "  I  said,  with  another  start,  "and  mort 
than  I  care  the  public  to  know." 

"But  I  am  not  one  of  the  public." 

"Y''ou  arc  a  friend  of  my  future  husbaiid'.s  ?" 
I  asked. 

"Come,  you  arc  guilty,  by  your  own  admis- 
sion," she  rejoined,  with  a  laugh:  and  then  she 
added,  "Yes,  I  am  your  future  husband's  friend. 
I  wish  him  well ;  but  he  knows  no  more  of  me 
than  you  do.  Y'ou  are  a  fortunate  woman.  You 
will  be  envied." 

"Why?" 

' '  Why  !  is  not  Julian  Gower  known  to  be  a 
rich  man  ?" 

"I  am  prepared  for  that  taunt  from  the 
world,"  I  said,  with  heat.  "He  is  a  very  rich 
man.  And  if  the  ^vorld  likes,  it  may  say  he 
bought  mc  from  the  Committee.  For  his  sake  I 
would  readily  be  called  mercenary,  or  stigma- 
tized by  any  other  odious  epithet." 

"  No,  Miss  Tree,  the  world  won't  call  you  mer- 
cenary ;  it  will  content  itself  with  saying  that 
your  husband  is  a  fool.  Yours  will  be  a  love 
match.  But  you  should  not  be  severe  on  wo- 
men who  make  mercenary  alliances.  Men  and 
women  are  very  differently  placed  with  regard 
to  matrimony.  To  a  man,  marriage  is  only  a 
field  for  the  exercise  of  his  aflxictions ;  to  a  wo- 
man, it  is  both  a  field  for  the  development  of  af- 
fection, and  the  only  career  open  for  her  ambi- 
tion. A  man  may  advance  himself  in  life  by 
business,  speculation,  labor  of  body,  labor  of 
brain.  If  he  fail  once,  he  may  begin  again,  and 
yet  win  a  prize  in  life ;  but  when  a  ^Noman  is 
once  married  she  has  lost  all  control  over  her 
career,  as  far  as  worldly  prosperity  is  concerned. 
It  is  as  much  a  woman's  place  to  look  out  for 
her  interests  in  marriage  as  it  is  a  man's  jjlace 
to  strive  for  advancement  in  his  jirofcssion.  In- 
deed, to  marry  is  a  girl's  profession,  marriage 
is  her  vocation  ;  and  whether  she  succeed  in  life 
or  not  depends  altogether  on  the  one  selection 
she  makes  of  a  husband.  You.  should  then  be 
charitable  to  girls  who  display  a  certain  amount  , 
of  worldly  prudence  in  the  one  great  act  of  busi- 
ness, which  is  to  decide  their  worldly  position  for 
them." 

She  said  all  this  with  so  much  quiet  earnest- 
ness that  I  was  impressed  by  it.  It  struck  me 
that  she  was  possibly  touching  on  some  past  per- 
sonal experiences  of  which  I  had  rudely  remind- 
ed her. 

"  I  would  judge  no  one  uncharitably',"  I  said. 

"  I  am  sure  you  icould  not .'"  she  said,  kindly. 
"You  deserve  to  be  happy,  and  I  think  you  will 
be  happy." 

She  seemed  to  be  considering  within  herself 
for  a  few  moments,  when  she  added,  in  a  tone 
that  caused  mc  to  remember  her  words  long  aft- 
erward, "You  ivill  be  hapi)y  if  you  have  chil- 
dren ;  but  a  childless  wife  no  husband  can  real- 
ly love.     May  you  never  learn  the  truth  of  my 


I 


126 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


words  !  Mr.  Gowor  is  a  man  of  high  principle, 
and  under  any  lircunistances  he  will  show  you 
much  consideration  and  tenderness  ;  but  if  you 
sliould  not  have  children,  you'll  have  reason  to 
regret  that  you  did  not  remain  till  old  age  the 
matron  of  tlic  Marchioness  Street  Hosjtital." 

As  she  said  this  she  changed  the  direction  in 
which  she  was  standing,  and  the  street  lamp  un- 
der which  she  stood  revealed  to  me  the  features 
of  a  face  I  remembered.  She  had  drawn  up  her 
dark  veil  above  her  mouth,  and,  looking  under 
the  folds,  I  saw  the  delicate,  composed,  tliought- 
ful  countenance  of  the  lady  I  had  spoken  with 
four  years  before  in  Hyde  Park. 

"I  have  seen  you,  and  spoken  with  you  once 
before,"  I  said. 

"You  have — in  Hyde  Park,"  she  answered, 
without  any  ruffle  of  her  tranquillity. 

"You  know  me  and  my  history,"  I  said. 
"Let  me  know  you  too.  I  feel  we  ought  to 
know  each  other." 

"  I  knew  you,"  she  answered,  "  and  your  his- 
tory, long  before  the  day  I  took  you  fainting  in 
my  arms,  and  conveyed  you  in  my  carriage  from 
Hyde  Park  to  Marchioness  Street.  I  had  then 
watched  you  for  man}^  a  day.  Do  not  resent 
my  care  for  you.  Indeed  there  is  no  person  of 
your  sex  who,  more  sincerely  than  I  do,  wishes 
for  your  well-being.  But  you  may  not  know  me 
yet.  Perhaps  one  day  we  may  be  friends,  but 
not  yet.     Good-night!" 

I  saw  tears  in  her  ej'cs  as  I  looked  vip  into 
them  under  the  street  lamp  and  said  "Good- 
night !  I  thank  you  for  your  good  wishes.  If 
we  may  not  be  friends  in  this  world,  let  us  look 
forward  to  meeting  in  another  life." 

"  God  bless  you,  dear!"  she  answered,  softly, 
"I  will  pray  that  we  may  meet  there." 

As  she  moved  away  1  did  not  feel  it  right  to 
follow  her. 

In  another  minute  she  had  turned  into  Guild- 
ford Street  and  was  out  of  my  sight,  lier  quiet 
departure  causing  the  streets  to  appear  very  still 
and  tranquil.  It  was  as  though  a  lull  had  come 
over  the  night  traffic. 

It  was  but  a  stej)  to  Marchioness  Street ;  and 
when  I  stood  upon  the  steps  of  Grace  Temple, 
looking  up  and  down  the  antique  way,  the  grim, 
deserted  mansions  had  a  more  solemn  aspect  than 
they  had  worn  for  many  a  niglit. 

"  Poor  lady!"  I  said.     "And  I  am  so  hapi)y  !" 


CHAPTER  II. 


A   "VTEDDING    WITHOUT   OR^VNGE-BLOSSOMS. 

I  DID  my  Utmost  to  keep  the  approach  of  my 
marriage  a  secret;  not  that  I  was  ashamed  of 
myself  for  intending  to  become  a  wife  at  so  ad- 
vanced an  age  as  thirty-eight  years,  but  because 
the  circumstances  of  my  liistory  made  me  still 
unduly  sensitive  of  the  curiosity  of  ipy  neigh- 
bors. So  I  told  no  one  of  the  step  I  was  about 
to  take  till  a  few  days  before  the  event,  wlicn  I 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Gurlcy,  informing  her  of  my  de- 
termination ;  and  to  Mrs.  Monk,  of  Claj)ton,  ask- 
ing lier  for  her  prayers  for  my  hai)piness.  Those 
epistles  written,  I  next  let  Dr.  Merrion  into  my 
Gonfidence. 

"I  am  going  to  say  good-by  to  Marchioness 
Street  next  Wednesday,  Dr.  Memon,"  I  said. 


Looking  at  me  with  a  queering,  curious  ex- 
pression in  his  kind  face,  the  doctor  answered, 
"  I  hope  you  won't  altogether  desert  us.  You'll 
come  and  see  us  occasionally — eh  ?" 

"There  will  never  a  week  pass  over  without 
my  spending  several  hours  here,  unless  I  am  ill, " 
I  answered. 

"Then  you  are  not  going  far  out  of  town?" 

AVhercupon  I  communicated  lo  iiini  tlie  great 
intelligence. 

"  Aha!  aha!  Miss  Tree,  this  is  an  unexpect- 
ed piece  of  news  !  Now  then  the  secret  is  out ! 
'Tis  no  longer  a  marvel  that  you  s]u)uld  walk 
al)out  the  hospital  singing!"  he  answered,  with 
unaffected  merriment ;  and  then,  suddenly  clieck- 
ing  iiimself,  he  added,  with  touching  earnestness, 
"  My  dear  Miss  Tree,  from  the  de])ths  of  my 
heart  I  trust  that  you  may  be  as  hap]iy  as  you 
deserve,  and  that  God  may  reward  you  for  your 
motherly  care  of  tlie  sick  poor  cliildren  of  this  in- 
stitution by  giving  j-ou  babes  of  your  own  1" 

"Dear,  dear  doctor,"  I  said,  "speak  just  as 
kindly  to  me,  but  don't  speak  so  seriously  to  me, 
or  you  will  make  me  cry,  and  that  would  trouble 
me,  for  I  want  to  ask  a  favor  of  you." 

And  so  near  was  I  to  breaking  down  as  it  was, 
that  I  had  to  put  my  hands  over  my  eyes,  and 
bite  my  lips  quite  hard,  and  count  ten  before  I 
could  go  on. 

"And  what  is  the  favor?"  inquired  the  doc- 
tor. 

"I  am  going  to  be  married  very  quietly,  doc- 
tor," I  answered.  "Julian  will  call  here  at 
nine  o'clock  on  Wednesday  morning,  and  we 
shall  l)reakfast  in  my  sitting-room ;  and  after 
breakfast  we  shall  walk  up  the  street,  just  as  if 
we  were  going  for  an  airing  and  a  sho]ipiiig,  but 
we  shall  at  first  go  no  further  than  the  Square 
church,  where  we  shall  be  married  quite  ])rivate- 
ly.  On  coming  out  of  church  we  shall  find  Ju- 
lian's carriage  waiting  at  the  door  for  us,  and  he 
will  take  me  with  him  to  'The  Cedars'  at  High- 
gate,  where  we  are  going  to  live.  Now,  doctor, 
can  you  spare  the  time  to  come  to  the  church  at 
ten  o'clock,  and  sign  your  name  in  tlie  register 
as  a  ^^  itness  of  the  eeremon}' ?  I  have  written 
to  Mrs.  Monk,  of  CI  ijiton,  to  ask  her  to  attend 
also,  and  be  the  oth  r  witness;  but  otherwise  I 
shall  invite  no  one  to  the  church." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Tree,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  it 
will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  witness  your  mar- 
riage, and  you  may  rely  on  my  ])imctual  attend- 
ance. If  the  greatest  lady  in  Mayfair  sends  for 
me  next  Wednesday  I  won't  attend  to  her  sum- 
mons till  I  have  seen  you  married.  But  tell  me, 
who  is  Julian  ?" 

"  Mr.  Gower,"  I  answered. 

"What!"  cried  the  doctor,  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise.  "  Mr.  Julian  Gower,  the  civil 
engineer  !" 

"  Wliy,  yes ;  who  else  should  it  Ire  ?" 

"This  is  the  romance  of  real  life!"'  cried  the 
doctor,  cniijhatically. 

And  then  I  told  Dr.  Merrion  all  abo-ut  Julian 
Gower — how  he  and  I  had  lived  in  our  childhood 
like  l)rothcr  and  sister  in  the  hai)])y  "corn  coun- 
try;" how  I  had  loved  him  tlien.  wlien  he  was 
(juite  unaware  of  my  ])assionate  devotion  to  him; 
liow  he  had  gone  away  to  America,  ignorant  that 
my  heart  beat  first  for  him,  and  only  cared  in  a 
less  degree  for  other  jicrsons;  how  after  his  de- 
parture for  South  America  we  lived  separated 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


127 


for  many  long,  long  years ;  how  during  all  the 
long  years  of  my  service  in  the  hospital  I  had 
never  laid  my  head  on  my  pillow  witlioiit  pray- 
ing lleaveu  to  protect  him,  wherever  he  might 
be,  whatever  he  might  lie  doing,  and  whatever 
suffering;  how  we  hiially  met  near  the  resting- 
place  ofa  dear  dead  tVieiid,  and  once  more  joined 
h:u\d  to  hand ;  how  he,  grown  rich,  and  power- 
ful, and  honored,  was  tlie  same  simple,  generous, 
and  merciful  man  that  he  had  ever  been ;  and 
how  he  had  learned  to  love  me,  and  was  going 
to  exalt  me  to  be  his  wife!  And  when  I  had 
told  the  doctor  all  this,  I  did  that  which  I  was 
sure  from  the  first  he  would  make  me  do — I  be- 
gan to  cry.  And  I  had  to  liurry  from  the  doctor 
for  fear  of  annoying  himself  and  myself  with  "  a 
scene." 

The  night  before  my  marriage  was  a  very  hap- 
py one,  but  full  of  solemn  thoughts,  grave  reflec- 
tions, tender  and  patlietic  recollections.  I  spent 
the  evening  by  myself,  reading  in  that  book  wliich 
had  been  my  comfortable  light  when  I  traveled 
in  dark  places,  offering  thanks  to  my  heavenly 
Father  for  all  his  wonderful  mercies  vouchsafed 
to  me,  and  earnestly  begging  him  to  still  guard 
my  uprising  and  my  downlying  with  paternal 
care.  When  the  wards  were  at  rest,  and  none 
in  the  hospital  (save  myself  and  two  or  three  very 
sick  children,  and  the  nurses  on  night  duty)  were 
awake,  I  walked,  for  the  last  time  at  that  still 
point  of  the  four-and-twenty  hours,  through  the 
spacious  halls,  and  ceiled  and  painted  rooms,  and 
dark  passages  of  "The  Doctor"  and  "Grace 
Temple."  The  moon  rained  down  her  soft  light 
through  the  ornamented  windows,  touching  with 
a  delicate  pencil  the  outlines  of  the  Graces  and 
Venuses  on  the  dimmed  panes,  and  flinging  dark 
^hadows  athwart  the  effulgence  of  the  spacious 
*aIleriLS.  Memories  of  children  who  had  come 
to  those  wards  in  sickness  and  left  them  in  health, 
and  of  others  who  had  breathed  their  last  prayers 
on  the  hospital  beds,  ere  the  merciful  emissaries 
of  Death  took  their  souls  to  heaven — faces  chas- 
tened by  suffering,  flawed  by  vice,  sharpened  by 
sickness — memories  of  such  strange,  sad,  fear- 
ful, weird,  pathetic  faces  rose  before  and  around 
me. 

But  I  went  to  bed  very  happy,  and  my  sleep 
had  many  pleasant  dreamsi 

In  the  morning  I  was  up  early,  and  dressed  my- 
self— not  in  mourning,  but  in  a  light  muslin  walk- 
ing-dress, and  a  white  muslin  bonnet,  trimmed 
with  a  few  bright  flowers  and  a  spray  of  green. 
I  would  not  be  married  in  black — nay  I  could 
not.  At  nine  o'clock  Julian  came ;  and  after 
reading  together  in  the  Bible,  and  saying  a  short 
prayer  on  our  knees  together,  we  had  coffee,  and 
in  much  excitement  recognized  to  ourselves  that 
the  time  of  our  hope  was  drawing  nigh. 

When  the  clock  struck  ten  I  had  my  arm  in 
Julian's,  and  he  led  me  down  the  broad  staircase 
of  "Grace  Temple"  without  anyone  seeming  to 
observe  us — and  across  the  spacious  marble  hall 
of  "Grace  Temple,"  also  without  encountering 
__  nurses,  or  servants,  or  spectators  of  any  kind. 
When  we  were  at  the  door  my  heart  fluttered 
very  fast,  and  I  thought  I  must  return  to  take 
another  look  at  my  darlings  in  the  wards  ;  but 
it  was  too  late  to  do  so,  for  Julian  had  opened 
the  outer  door  of  "Grace  Temple,"  and  in  an- 
other moment  we  were  in  Marchioness  Street, 
where  the  sun  was  shining  brightly,  making  mill- 


ions of  little  diamonds  of  tlie  last  remains  of  the 
morning's  haze. 

The  church  to  which  we  were  bound  was  with- 
in sight  of  the  door  of  "  Grace  Tcmi)le."  It  was 
the  church  that  I  had  regularly  attended  during 
my  ten  years'  residence  in  Marchioness  Street, 
and  stood  in  the  dingy,  deserted  si[uare  at  the 
end  of  tlie  street — the  square  which  I  have  al- 
ready sjioken  of  as  being  given  up  to  forlorn 
third-rate  lodging-houses  and  boarding-liouses, 
even  as  Marcliioness  Street  is  given  up  to  chari- 
table objects.  But  though  Julian  and  I  had  not 
to  walk  more  than  a  hundred  yards  to  the  church 
that  distance  was  long  enough  for  me — excited 
as  I  was — to  observe  a  great  alteration  in  the 
quietude  of  the  cjuarter.  Such  an  unusual  num- 
ber of  people  were  stirring  in  Marchioness  Street, 
all  walking  in  the  same  direction — toward  the 
church.  I  could  not  make  it  out.  Then  I  be- 
gan to  be  aware  that  glances  were  turned  to  me, 
and  I  discerned  signs  of  emotion  and  pleasure 
in  the  faces  that  looked  at  me.  And  looking  for- 
ward, I  saw  quite  a  crowd  of  people  round  the 
church  door. 

"  Why,  Julian, ''  I  said,  "there  must  be  some- 
thing going  forward  at  the  church.  What  can 
it  be?     There's  quite  a  commotion." 

"I  declare,  Tibby,"  answered  Julian,  with  a 
voice  of  great  agitation,  "I  believe,  in  spite  of 
all  our  precautions  to  keep  our  intention  secret, 
the  people  have  learned  our  purpose,  and  are 
bent  on  doing  us  some  honor." 

"Don't  be  so  absurd,  Julian,"  I  answered, 
quite  sharply,  for  really  for  just  half  a  second  I 
thought  he  was  joking,  and  I  did  not  exactly  like 
him  to  jest  at  so  serious  a  crisis  of  our  lives. 

We  had  just  time  to  exchange  these  words 
when  we  arrived  at  the  church  door,  and  found 
it  quite  blocked  up.  Fortunately,  Dr.  INIerrion 
met  us,  and  said,  "Here,  come  round  to  the 
vestry  door,  and  you'll  be  admitted  there.  Mi's. 
Monk  is  there  waiting  for  you.  They  have  kept 
the  vestry  entrance  all  clear  for  you." 

"But,  dear  Dr.  jNIerrion,"  I  asked,  catching 
hold  of  the  physician's  arm,  "  what  is  the  mat- 
ter ?  What  are  they  doing  ?  It  can't  be  about 
us?" 

"Keep  yourself  calm,  my  dear,"  answered  the 
doctor'.     "There's  quite  a  scene  in  the  church." 

On  entering  the  vestry  Mrs.  Monk  came  for- 
ward and  took  me  into  her  arms ;  and  when  I 
had  kissed  her,  another  lady — a  stranger  to  me 
— came  and  offered  me  congratulations  on  my 
approaching  happiness.  She  was  Mrs.  Merrion, 
the  doctor's  wife. 

While  I  was  exchanging  a  few  sentences  with 
these  ladies,  Julian  left  me  for  half  a  minute, 
and  looking  through  the  glass  of  the  inner  door 
of  the  vestry  surveyed  the  interior  of  the  church, 
in  which  there  was  literally  not  a  vacant  jjlace. 
Every  pew  and  every  bench  was  crowded,  and 
the  aisles  were  thronged  with  people  jiressing 
against  each  other. 

Julian  had  at  all  times  a  very  powerftd  voice. 
It  could  be  very  soft  and  gentle  ;  but  its  ordi- 
nary tone  was  very  full  and  sonorous,  and  when 
exerted  to  its  utmost  he  could  overpower  the 
uproar  of  any  multitude. 

When  he  had  surveyed  the  interior  of  the 
church  through  the  glass  door,  he  turned  round 
and  exclaimed  with  a  shout  of  thunder — "  Good 
Heavens  !  the  church  is  full  of  poor  people.   Er- 

I 


128 


OLTVI':  ELAKE'H  GOOD  WOliK. 


ery  corner  is  crammed.  They  ;iro  all  ]>oor  peo- 
ple, and  they're  all  her  friends!" 

lie  addressed  these  words  to  Dr.  IMerrion, 
qnite  unconseious  of  the  stentorian  voice  with 
which  he  uttered  thcni.  Never  shall  1  forget 
iJie  magnificent  exultation  of  those  words,  and 
of  that  triumphant  smile  wliich  crossed  my  hus- 
hand's  face  as  he  uttered  them. 

' '  Hush !  my  dear  Sir, "  said  Dr.  IMerrion, 
"command  j'oursclf,  or  you  will  upset  Miss 
Tree's  composure." 

After  the  lapse  of  a  minute  or  two  I  stood  in 
the  church  before  the  ofiiciating  clergyman.  I 
was  told  afterward  that  the  ceremony  all  went 
off  well,  and  that  I  acted  my  part  to  jierfection. 
I  was  glad  to  hear  that,  the  more  so  as  I  myself 
heeded  nothing  of  what  went  forward.  I  did 
not  distinguish  one  of  the  clergyman's  words — 
whether  he  addressed  us,  or  offered  up  the  sol- 
emn prayers  of  the  marriage  service,  it  was  all 
the  same.  I  noticed  nothing,  remembered  no- 
thing. I  could  not  think  of  Julian,  or  of  my 
future,  or  of  the  solemn  purpose  which  had 
brought  me  to  the  church.  The  one  vision  pres- 
ent to  my  mind,  whether  I  stood  or  whether  I 
knelt,  was  that  of  the  dense,  countless  multitude 
of  human  faces  that  were  turned  to  me  as  I  passed 
through  the  vestry  door  and  entered  the  church. 
My  head  and  my  heart  were  so  full  of  that  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  think  of  any  thing  else.  I 
only  recovered  my  consciousness  when  I  found 
myself  again  with  Mrs.  Monk,  and  Mrs.  Merri- 
on,  and  Julian,  and  the  doctor,  and  the  officiating 
clergyman,  and  I  heard  myself  addressed  on  all 
sides  as  Mrs.  Gower.  I  looked  at  my  finger  and 
found  a  wedding-ring  upon  it.  So  that  was  all 
right.  And  then  I  looked  at  my  husband,  and 
he  said,  "You  behaved  beautifully,  Tibby." 

AVhen  we  had  all  put  our  signatures  in  due 
form  in  the  register,  the  question  was  debated 
how  we  could  best  effect  our  exit  from  the 
church. 

"You  mayn't,"  said  Julian,  decidedly,  ex- 
pressing an  opinion  in  which  I  heartily  con- 
curred, "slij)  out  by  the  vestry  door.  You  must 
walk  down  the  church  and  show  yourself  to  the 
people.     It  would  be  ungracious  not  to  do  so." 

"But  where  is  your  carriage,  Mr.  Gower?" 
inquired  the  clergyman.  "I  question  M'hether 
yoti'U  be  able  to  get  it  through  the  crowd  U])  to 
the  chief  entrance,  if  it  is  not  there  already." 

"Tibby,"  said  my  husband,  "wait  here  for 
an  instant,  and  I'll  go  into  the  square  myself 
and  sec  al)out  that." 

So  he  left  me  for  an  instant,  but  did  not  re- 
turn for  several  minutes.  In  the  square  he  found 
the  jicojile  bent  on  taking  the  horses  out  of  the 
carriage,  and  dragging  us  in  tiiumi)h  to  the  hos- 
pital, whither  they  not  unnaturally  supposed  we 
were  about  to  return. 

"Don't  do  that,  my  good  friends,"  cried  Ju- 
lian, his  powerful  voice  now  doing  him  good 
service  ;  "  the  lady  won't  like  it.  Indeed  she 
won't.  Don't  interfere  with  my  horses  and  serv- 
ants!" 

"Arc  you  the  matron's  husband?"  cried  a 
score  of  diirerent  voices  at  tlie  same  time. 

"Yes,  my  friend^,  I  am,"  answered  Julian. 
"  1  sec  you  don't  like  me  the  worse  for  that." 

A  deafening  cheer  was  the  resjionsc  accorded 
to  this  address. 

"Now,  mv  fri'iuls,  listen  to  m?,     I  am  much 


affected  by  this  demonstration  of  your  regard  fur 
my  wife.  That  I  am.  Just  hear  what  she  wishes 
to  do.  She  wishes  to  leave  the  vestry  and  ^^alk 
down  the  middle  of  the  church  (so  as  to  show 
herself  ti)  jicr  friends  there),  and  to  leave  by  the 
great  dour.  If  you'll  let  my  carriage  come  up  to 
tlie  door,  she'll  be  able  to  see  you  all  as  we  dri^  u 
through  you." 

There  was  more  cheering  at  this  addres.s,  but 
still  the  crowd  did  not  seem  to  relish  the  notion 
of  being  forl)idden  to  pay  me  the  compliment 
they  intended. 

"Order  'em,  your  honor!"  cried  an  honest 
workman,  who  stood  near  my  husband.  "Or- 
der 'em !  They'll  like  to  be  ordered  by  you. 
They'll  regularly  enjoij  it,  your  honor!  Order 
'em." 

But  Julian  had  no  need  to  act  on  this  sugges- 
tion ;  for  the  members  of  the  dense  crowd,  of 
their  own  accord,  and  very  good-naturedly,  gave 
way,  cheering  as  a  London  crowd  likes  to  cheer, 
and  my  husband's  carriage  speedily  drew  up 
against  the  door. 

It  took  me  nearly  an  hour  to  get  through  the 
church,  for  the  ^^■o^len  pressed  u))on  me  from  all 
sides  to  wish  mc  "God-speed!"  Then  they  be- 
gan to  shake  hands  with  me,  and  of  course  I  was 
only  too  glad  to  respond  to  such  a  form  of  greet- 
ing. Man}'  of  them  were  the  mothers  and  sis 
ters  of  children  who  had  been  in  the  hospital ; 
and  as  many  of  them  as  could  get  near  enough' 
to  me  to  do  so  spoke  a  few  words  into  my  ear. 
But  who,  to  my  most  extreme  surprise  on  that 
morning  of  sur])rises,  should  stop  me  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  aisle  but  Mrs.  Gurley,  who  had  now 
made  a  second  journey  up  to  town  from  Laugh- 
ton  to  rejoice  with  me  in  my  joy,  even  as  she  had 
jireviously  traveled  iq)  from  the  corn  country  to 
show  her  sympathy  with  my  sorrow.  "  You  see, 
dear,"  she  said,  kissing  me,  "I  did  not  care  to 
trouble  you  with  a  note  to  say  what  I  intended 
doing,  for  fear  you  might  forbid  me.  Ah,  dear 
creature,  I  shall  write  such  a  letter  to  Gurley 
about  it  this  very  day!  And,  as  I  am  going  to 
make  quite  a  long  stay  in  Oxford  Street  this 
time,  I  shall  be  able  to  come  and  see  you  in  your 
own  home  before  I  leave  London  and  go  back  to 
Laughton." 

At  last  I  reached  the  door,  where  my  husband's 
carriage  was  waiting  for  us. 

"Throw  it  o])en — throw  it  open!"  cried  my 
dear  husband  to  the  servants;  "let  the  people 
see  your  mistress." 

"  (jh  yes,"  I  said,  "let  me  see  them." 

While  the  servants  were  carrying  out  this  di- 
rection we  stood  in  the  vestibule  of  the  church 
surrounded  l)y  strangers,  but  still  not  yet  mani- 
fest to  the  crowd  outside.  "Madam,"  said  a 
gruff  voice  to  me,  "last  night  as  tlie  wind  was 
t()p])ling  the  silver  clouds  about  the  moon,  and  I 
smoked  my  pi])e  at  the  gate,  I  talked  it  all  over 
to  the  'little  'un,'  and  he's  right  pleased,  as  am 
I.     I  hojjc,  madam,  we  sha'n't  lose  you  (luite." 

"  No,  no, "  I  said ;  "  I  shall  have  many  a  walk 
yet  in  Gray's  Inn  Gardens." 

Til 3  carriage  was  ready  for  us,  and  my  hus- 
band, giving  me  his  arm,  led  me  over  the  thresh- 
old of  the  church  entrance.  What  a  burst  of 
cheers  !  what  reiterated  bursts  of  cheering  shook 
the  windows  of  the  old  deserted  mansions  as  I 
took  my  seat  liy  Julian — and  wc  slowly  made 
our  way  through  the  dense  masses  of  our  friends 


■-I 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


129 


down  Marchioness  Street,  and  round  into  Guild- 
ford Street,  hy  wliicli  route  we  entered  Russell 
Square,  and  then  turned  off  toward  Higiigate. 
Brave,  honest,  affectionate  crowd  !_  They  did 
not  commend  me  only !  The  romance  of  their 
rugged  natures  was  stirred  by  tlie  spectacle  of 
"a  great  rich  gentleman"  taking  away  as  his 
wife  "their  hospital  matron"  —  one  inured  to 
humble  toil  like  themselves  ! 

"Julian,"!  said,  as  tlieir  concluding  hurralis 
followed  ns,  "I  have  done  nothing  save  the  faith- 
fid  discharge  of  duties  I  was  paid  to  perform. 
And  see  how  they  love  us  !" 

"My  dear  Tibby,"  he  answered,  "it  is  the 
lesson  of  the  Base.  It  is  the  benediction  after 
the  sermon." 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    EMPTY    QUIVER. 

October  has  come  again.  It  is  the  second 
October  since  my  marriage, 
f  Two  years  are  long  enough  to  enable  me  to 
/say  whether  the  actual  felicity  of  married  life 
has  equaled  my  anticipations.  A  shrewd  coun- 
try dame  I  used  to  be  familiar  with  in  my  child- 
hood always  declined  to  give  an  opinion  of  new 
settlers  in  her  neighborhood  until  (to  use  her 
own  language)  she  "had  summered  them  and 
•wintered  them."  My  wedded  experiences  have 
twice  passed  through  the  process  of  "summer- 
ing and  wintering."  What  is  the  result  ?  Is  it 
well  or  ill  for  woman  to  live  alone  ? 

The  luxuries  and  refinements  that  wealtli  can 
command  are  mine  of  course.  JNIy  gardens  and 
conservatories  elicit  the  admiration  of  my  neigh- 
bors, and  bring  distinguished  visitors  to  "The 
Cedars."  I  have  again  returned  to  music  and 
water-color  painting,  under  the  guidance  of  able 
artists — such  as  in  my  childhood  and  girlhood  I 
never  hoped  to  number  among  my  personal  ac- 
quaintance. For  literature  I  have  in  my  library 
wliatever  I  wish  to  order.  My  husband  is  very 
popular  in  society,  and  he  attracts  to  his  house 
all  the  principal  personages  of  London  ciicles 
who  are  distinguished  by  any  gift  or  achieve- 
ment that  men  deem  honorable.  My  tastes  lead 
me  to  persevere  in  seclusion,  but  my  husband's 
guests  are  pleased  to  visit  hir.i,  and  aj)i)ear  to 
have  a  cordial  liking  for  his  wife.  My  mind  has 
also  been  enlarged  by  foreign  travel,  for  I  have 
been  to  Paris  and  Berlin.  Wherever  my  hus- 
band goes  in  Great  Britain  it  is,  moreover,  my 
wont  to  accompany  him.  Besides  all  these 
sources  of  enjoyment,  I  have  the  exquisite  pleas- 
ru'c  of  being  my  husband's  almoner ;  and  to  dis- 
tribute the  large  sum  that  Julian  Gower  devotes  to 
benevolent  uses  is  to  scatter  bountifully  among  the 
indigent  the  meansof  obtaining  physical  comfort. 

What  more  shall  T  add  to  this  enumeration 
of  my  blessings? 

My  dear  husband's  w  orldly  prosperity  and  dig- 
nity increase.  He  is  wealthier  and  more  hon- 
ored than  when  he  married  me.  An  important 
constituency  in  the  north  of  England  has  made 
him  their  representative  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons ;  and  new  as  he  is  to  the  House,  he  is  al- 
ready regarded  as  a  man  of  mark — ready  to 
speak,  powerful  to  convince,  and  lofty  in  his 
aims.  To  me  he  is  nil  I  knew  he  would  be. 
His  will  is  so  completely  mine,  or  my  will  so 


completely  his,  that  I  seem  to  govern  our  do- 
mestic concerns  according  to  my  own  humor. 
Really  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  a  little  opjiosition 
or  manifestation  of  control  on  the  part  of  Julian 
would  be  for  my  benefit,  and  save  me  from  a 
tendency  to  imperiousness  of  manner.  Wc  are 
still  young  lovers,  thinking  and  fearing  and  hop- 
ing for  each  other,  as  poets  rejjresent  their  young 
men  and  maidens. 

I  have  no  lack  of  occupation.  The  Hospital 
for  Sick  Children  ha8  much  of  my  time  and  at- 
tention. My  name  is  on  the  list  of  lady  visitors 
now ;  and  always  once,  and  often  three  or  four 
times  a  week,  I  am  to  be  seen  in  Marchioness 
Street.  Julian  has  given  me  a  cottage  at  High- 
gate  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  our  garden- 
gate,  which  I  have  converted  into  an  establish- 
ment for  the  convalescent  children,  so  that  they 
can  breathe  the  invigorating  air  of  my  beloved 
Highgate  Hill  before  returning  to  their  humble 
homes. 

Surely  I  have  nothing  to  desire  ? 

I  often  sai/  I  desire  nothing  more,  and  try  to 
persuade  myself  that  my  heart  agrees  with  my 
lips.  I  argue  that  children  are  an  uncertain 
good  —  growing  to  shame  and  sorrow^  as  often 
as  to  joy  and  gladness.  When  young  girls  of 
my  neighbors  marry,  and  leave  their  homes  for 
new  interests  and  engrossing  cares,  I  whisper, 
"  Ah,  I  am  preserved  from  the  anguish  of  such 
desertion  !  How  could  I  bear  to  lose  my  chil- 
dren, when  I  had  guided  them  through  the  dan- 
gers of  early  life,  and  reared  them  to  the  charms 
of  womanhood."  Last  week  a  lady  of  my  ac- 
quaintance received  intelligence  of  her  son's 
death,  shot  in  an  Indian  battle.  "  Poor  woman !" 
I  said,  "she  knows  a  sorrow  that  will  never 
touch  me."  If  the  question  concerned  only  my- 
self, I  do  not  think  it  would  trouble  me  much. 
It  would  be  only  now  and  then  that  my  heart 
would  see  the  hollowness  of  its  own  falsehoods. 
But  with  Julian  by  my  side,  how  can  I  ever  pre- 
tend to  believe  that  which  I  am  continually  say- 
ing to  myself? 

I  remember  how  in  the  garden  of  Lymm  Hall 
(when  he  was  only  a  boy)  he  declared  his  longing 
to  bo  "  a  master,"  so  that  he  might  have  "wife 
and  children."  He  has  a  wife  now — but  he  has 
no  children.  How  hard  to  him,  that  his  strong 
instinctive  yearnings  for  offspring — (strong  in  all 
men,  strongest  in  those  who  are  noblest) — should 
be  disappointed  !  Of  course  he  conceals  his  sor- 
row— at  least  as  far  as  fortitude  and  generous 
love  can  enable  him  do  so.  He  is  no  whit  less 
tender  to  me  than  he  was.  At  times  he  displays 
such  an  excess  of  delicate  thought  for  me,  that 
a  discomforting  suspicion  crosses  my  mind,  and 
I  ask  myself,  "Does  he  feel  it  necessary  to  be 
on  the  alert  to  hide  his  uneasiness  from  my  ob- 
servation ?"  As  I  said  before,  he  is  a  lover  rather 
than  a  husband.  But  he  does  not  deceive  me. 
I  see  too  clearly.  By  one  Avay  only  could  he 
blind  me ;  but  he  does  not  see  it.  If  he  were 
only  to  say  to  me  now  and  then  that  he  hoped 
ere  long  to  be  a  father,  I  should  be  put  into  a 
slight  transient  ease.  He  used  to  say  so  once ; 
he  never  says  so  now\ 

"Lo,"  says  the  Psalmist,  "children  and  the 
fruit  of  the  womb  are  an  heritage  and  gift  that 
Cometh  of  the  Lord. 

"  Like  as  the  arrows  in  the  hand  of  the  giant : 
even  so  are  the  young  children. 


130 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


"IIa])]iy  is  tlie  man  that  liath  his  quiver  full 
of  thuiu  ;  they  shall  not  be  ashamed  when  they 
speak  with  their  enemies  in  the  fja^te." 

The  time  was  when  I  tliought  these  words 
ver\'  beautiful.  They  are  now  very  cruel  to  me 
— sliarp-pointcd  '"  like  as  the  arrows  in  the  hand 
of  the  giant !"  In  the  stillness  and  in  the  crowd 
they  often  recur  to  me.  I  know  so  well  that  he 
would  be  hajipier  with  children!  '•  Julian,  Ju- 
lian !"  I  murmur  to  myself,  as  he  sits  in  his  arm- 
chair, tvitliout  a  child  on  his  knee,  "is  it  indeed 
a  reproach  to  you  among  your  enemies,  that  our 
home,  so  rich  in  the  devices  of  ai't,  wants  that 
music  wliich  no  wealth  can  buy?"  And  then  I 
retire  to  a  solitude  where  I  may  undisturbed  pray 
to  be  endowed  with  the  "heritage  and  gift  that 
Cometh  of  the  Lord." 

I  think  I  should  be  less  unhappy  if  I  could 
take  hold  of  Julian's  hand,  and  ask  him  to  for- 
give me.  But  I  dare  not  even  let  him  know  that 
I  ponder  such  a  grief.  I  school  myself  to  bear 
this  cross,  but  it  is  the  heaviest,  and  rudest,  and 
hardest  that  has  ever  been  laid  upon  my  shoul- 
ders. It  wears  my  spirits  terribly,  and  wears 
them  all  the  more,  because  I  may  not  own  to 
Julian  that  I  am  so  worn.  For  several  days 
past  he  has  been  urging  me  to  make  a  trip  to 
Brighton,  to  restore  the  lost  color  to  my  pale 
cheeks  ;  and  he  speaks  of  my  evident  weariness 
and  dejection  as  signs  of  an  indisposition  conse- 
quent on  the  situation  of  our  house.  To-morrow 
he  will  perhaps  account  for  my  ailing  health  in 
some  other  way  ;  but  whatever  he  says  or  leaves 
unsaid,  he  will  endeavor  to  hide  from  me  the 
sorrow  wliich  I  know  lives  within  him. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MTSTEKIOUS    PERSECUTION. 

I  HAD  been  for  months  very  languid  and  de- 
pressed, utterly  beaten  in  my  spirits  with  con- 
tinually thinking  about  my  childlessness,  and 
the  deep  mortification  it  must  necessarily  be  to 
Julian.  Since  the  October  mentioned  in  my 
last  chapter  more  than  six  months  had  elapsed ; 
and  now  in  the  freshness  of  early  spring  I  was 
sitting  at  the  window  of  our  library  (which  we 
used  as  a  breakfast-room  at  "  The  Cedars"),  and 
looking  out  upon  the  smooth  green  of  the  lawn, 
the  shrubs  displaying  their  first  buds,  the  gray 
haze  still  hanging  on  the  decline  of  the  hill  and 
defying  the  splendid  sun,  and  the  nearest  out- 
skirts of  London  in  the  distance.  I  was  medi- 
tating on  that  which  barred  me  from  ])articipa- 
tion  in  the  ordinary  joy  of  creation.  Every  ob- 
ject in  nature  was  disjjlaying  fresh  signs  of  in- 
nate force — either  clothing  itself  with  the  rich 
treasures  hoarded  during  the  coldness  of  winter 
in  tlie  secret  places  of  its  internal  structure,  or 
otherwise  engaged  on  the  mysterious  task  of  re- 
producing life — life  that  in  due  course  should  be 
inde])cndent  of  its  i)arent  source,  and  in  turn  be 
life-producing.  Such  was  nature's  occupation  ; 
but  I  was  cut  oif  from  it.  I  was  precluded  from 
parficijniting  in  the  universal  and  harmonious 
operations  of  nature.  "With  all  my  gifts  of  for- 
tune, I  lacked  the  one  endowment  that  human 
creatures  rightly  ])rizc  beyond  all  others.  An 
alien  in  tlie  life,  wliere  crooked  destiny  had  fixecl 
me,  I  could  neitlier  give  c.xijrcssicju  to  tlie  long- 


ings of  my  own  breast,  nor  be  other  than  a  dark 
thread  in  the  fair  and  delicate  web  of  Julian's 
existence. 

Julian  had  to  visit  the  city  that  morning  be- 
fore going  down  to  a  ccmimittee  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  lie  broke  in  u])on  my  sad  medi- 
tations with  the  announcement  of  his  intended 
movements. 

"Tibby,  my  favorite  horse  is  lame,"  he  said, 
and  "  I  do  not  care  to-day  to  ride  any  other. 
Drive  me  about  town  in  your  phaeton  this  morn- 
ing. Take  me  down  to  the  Bank.  I  sha'n't  be 
there  more  than  half  an  hour ;  and  when  I  have 
transacted  my  business  in  Princes  Street,  you 
shall  take  me  on  to  Westminster.  I'll  "get  back 
here  to  dinner  in  a  cab,  and  then  go  down  again 
to  the  House  late,  for  the  debitte." 

"  How  soon  shall  we  start?" 

"  In  half  an  hour." 

"Very  well,  Julian.  The  plan  will  suit  rac 
admirably.  After  I  have  left  you  at  Westmin- 
ster I  will  drive  to  Marchioness  Street." 

"Ay,"  rejJied  Julian  cheerfully,  "and  if  you 
see  Dr.  Merrion,  ask  him  why  he  does  not  come 
here  more  frequently  and  prescribe  for  a  certain 
lady  who  is  getting  as  thin  as  a  wafer  and  as 
white  as  alabaster." 

"  No,  no"  (rather  pettishly),  "  I  sha'n't  trouble 
the  doctor  with  any  useless  complaints  about  my 
health." 

"What  are  you  looking  at  there,  so  sadly?" 
my  husband  next  inquired,  following  the  course 
taken  by  ray  eyes  across  the  lawn. 

"Look  at  our  father  of  the  trees,"  I  said, 
pointing  to  a  plantation  at  the  corner  of  the 
garden,  "  it  is  sapless  and  dead  ;  the  cold  winter 
has  killed  it.     I'll  order  Crofts  to  cut  it  down." 

"Why  cut  it  down,  my  dear?" 

"It  is  a  culprit,  and  disobeys  the  laws  of  na- 
ture. Moreover,  it  is  mournful  and  unsighllj'. 
Let  it  be  removed,  Julian." 

As  I  said  this,  Julian  took  my  right  hand  in 
his  right  hand,  and  looking  down  at  me,  covered 
my  trembling  self  with  the  light  of  his  eyes.  He 
read  my  heart — and  all  its  bitterness;  exactly, 
utterly,  and  with  deepest  commiseration.  I 
knew  he  read  it,  as  well  as  years  before  I 
knew  that  my  dear  grandfather  detected  my 
love  for  my  sister's  betrothed,  although  no  words 
had  passed  between  us  on  the  subject — as  well  as 
I  knew  that  Etty  had  seized  and  wrinig  my  s  - 
cret  from  me,  though  I  used  every  art  of  self- 
delusion  to  persuade  myself  that  she  was  igno- 
rant of  it. 

"Go,  darling,"  said  Julian,  with  grave  and 
exquisite  tenderness,  "go  and  get  ready  for  our 
drive :  I  will  order  the  carriage.  And,  Tibby, 
we  will  keep  our  old  father  of  the  trees  where  lie 
is.  I  only  admired  him  when  he  was  like  all 
the  others  round  him.  But  now  that  he  is 
withered  and  dead  I  love  him  as  if  he  were  a 
living  creature." 

I  took  my  husband  into  the  City  and  to  West- 
minster; after  which  I  went  to  ]\Iarchioncss 
Street,  returning  home  to  "The  Cedars"  by 
about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  But  my 
drive  had  not  dissipated  my  gloom.  How  should 
it?  I  tried  to  read,  but  the  work  in  h.and  could 
not  command  my  attention.  I  tried  to  make 
progress  with  a  ]>ninting  I  had  in  hand,  but  the 
colors  would  not  mix.  I  sat  down  at  the  jiiano, 
but  cverv  niimite  I  struck  a  Avrong  note.     At 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


131 


five  o'clock  a  message  came  from  my  husband 
saying  that  he  could  not  return  to  dinner,  and 
that  I  must  console  myself  without  his  company 
till  a  late  liour  at  night. 

"John,"  I  said  to  the  servant,  who  waited  at 
the  door  to  hear  if  I  had  any  answer  to  return 
to  my  husband  by  iiis  messenger,  "tell  cook  not 
to  trouble  herself  about  getting  any  dinner  for 
me.  I  shall  not  dine  at  home,  but  will  take  tea 
at  'The  Cottage.'  " 

"Tbe  Cottage"  was  the  dwelling  which  Ju- 
lian maintained  for  the  reception  of  the  conva- 
lescents from  the  Marchioness  Street  Hospital. 
To  gratify  me,  he  had  ornamented  it  with  carved 
wood  pointings  to  the  gables,  and  with  trellis- 
work,  just  as  "The  Cottage"  at  Laugh  ton  was 
ornamented ;  and  in  the  same  way  he  had  laid 
out  the  garden  round  it  in  imitation  of  the  min- 
iature "grounds"  that  girt  the  pretty  building 
in  which  I  and  my  dear  sister  had  years  ago  es- 
tablished our  school.  Our  regular  number  of 
convalescents  in  the  hospital  was  twelve,  the 
servants  engaged  for  their  comfort  being  two — a 
cook,  and  another  respectable  woman  who  acted 
as  nurse  and  nursery  governess  to  them,  teach- 
ing them  to  read  and  sew,  taking  them  out  for 
walks,  and  superintending  their  games.  "The 
Cottage"  was  Julian's  gift  to  me  on  the  first  an- 
niversary of  our  wedding-day ;  so  that  at  the 
time  of  which  I  am  now  speaking  I  had  had  it 
nearly  a  year  and  seven  months.  I  think  of  all 
my  sources  of  pleasure  it  was  the  one  from  which 
I  derived  most  enjoyment,  and  often  I  spent  an 
entire  day  at  it  when  Julian  was  absent  from 
home. 

It  set  me  almost  right  again  at  the  close  of 
that  spring  day,  which  was  so  sad  a  one.  They 
Avere  all  very  nice  children  in  "The  Cottage" 
just  then;  and  they  so  pleased  me  that  evening 
Avhen  I  took  tea  with  them,  that  a  thought  which 
during  the  past  year  I  had  often  taken  up,  and 
often  laid  aside  as  romantic  and  impracticable, 
renewed  its  power  over  my  imagination.  There 
was  a  beautiful  child  of  the  party — a  sturdy, 
manly,  blue-eyed,  curly-pated  boy,  just  seven 
years  old.  He  had  no  mother  living,  and  his 
father  was  a  bad,  selfish  man,  not  caring  enough 
for  him  ever  to  come  to  the  hospital  and  see  him 
during  his  sickness.  The  illness  for  which  the 
child  was  admitted  to  the  hospital  was  merely  a 
common  childish  malady  ;  and  Dr.  Merrion  pro- 
nounced the  boy  to  have  a  sound  and  vigorous 
constitution,  as  well  as  all  the  physical  signs  of 
active  intelligence.  Why  should  not  Julian 
adopt  him,  or  some  such  child  ?  He  would  not 
be  our  own  ;  we  could  never  care  for  him  alto- 
gefh-r  as  our  o,wn ;  but  still  we  might  love  him 
dearly,  give  him  our  name,  and  make  him  in 
the  coming  generations  a  memorial  of  our  strong 
mutual  affection.  This  plan  of  mine  may  be 
cause  of  smiles  to  such  as  do  not  sympathize 
with  sorrows  unlike  their  own.  And  it  does 
make  one  smile  sadly  to  see  what  tricks  human 
love  has  recourse  to  in  order  that  it  may  avoid 
the  blank  dreariness  of  its  own  disappointments. 

Comforted  and  serene  in  mind,  I  was  return- 
ing from  " Tiie  Cottage"  to  "The  Cedars."  It 
was  only  a  few  steps  from  the  one  dwelling  to 
the  other ;  so,  although  it  was  dark,  I  took  no 
servant  to  protect  me  for  that  sliort  distance,  but 
tui-ned  by  myself  from  "The  Cottage"  garden 
into  Highgatc  Lane.    I  had  often  and  often  done 


so  before,  and  had  made  the  transit  from  "The 
Cottage"  to  my  own  grounds  without  being  ac- 
costed by  or  even  meeting  any  one. 

On  the  i)resent  occasion,  however,  I  had  not 

advanced  twenty  paces  when  I  was  addressed  by 

my  own  name,  tlie  sound  of  which  in  the  quiet 

of  the  lane  startled  me,  and  made  my  heart  beat 

'  fast. 

"Why,"  said  I,  putting  my  hands  upon  the 
palings  that  ran  alongside  the  foot-path,  "how 
came  you  here  ?" 

"  You  remember  me,  then  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  remember  you." 

It  was  that  strange,  mysterious  lady  who  had 
twice  before  spoken  to  me,  once  in  Hyde  Park, 
and  once  in  Mecklenburgh  Square. 

"Well,"  she  asked,  in  the  same  composed 
voice  of  gentle,  womanly  sympathy,  tinctured  at 
times  with  a  tone  and  accent  of  mockery  and 
bitterness,  "  are  you  as  happy  now  that  you  are 
Mrs.  Julian  Gower  of  '  The  Cedars,'  as  you  were 
when  you  were  only  matron  of  the  Sick  Chil- 
dren's Hospital  ? — Are  you  as  happy  ?" 

"  I  am  very  happy." 

"  Nay,  that  is  to  avoid  my  question.  Are  you 
as  happy  as  you  were  three  years  since  ?" 

' '  Why  do  you  so  cross-examine  me  ?  Let 
me  pass  on.  Indeed  you  do  not  show  consider- 
ation for  my  feelings." 

"Poor  woman  !"  she  said,  with  touching  com- 
miseration, "you  are  indeed  to  be  pitied.  Raised 
to  wealth  and  social  position,  married  to  a  man 
you  love  with  your  whole  soul,  surrounded  with 
the  means  of  doing  that  good  which  every  rea- 
sonable person  finds  pleasure  in  effecting,  you 
are  still  steeped  in  miser}',  and  you  would  now 
rather  have  remained  what  three  years  since  you 
were — a  servant  in  a  charitable  institution." 

"You  speak  as  if  you  knew  me  thoroughly." 

"I  do  know  you  thoroughly.  When  yotir 
husband  is  asleep  you  lie  awake,  and  spend  the 
hours  of  darkness  in  silent  tears  which  you  dare 
not  show  him.  In  the  morning  he  sees  your 
pale  face,  and  feigns  ignorance  of  its  cause.  You 
are  well  aware  that  he  on\j feigns  ignorance.  It's 
an  affectation  that  is  forced  upon  him,  but  it  de- 
ceives neither  him  nor  you ;  and  what  is  more, 
he  knows  that  it  does  not  impose  upon  you.  Were 
it  not  for  the  sin,  I'd  rather  be  an  outcast  in  the 
street  than  put  my  lips  to  the  cup  from  which 
you  have  to  drink  night  and  day,  day  and  night"' 

"Would  you,"  I  asked,  "goad  me  to  rebel 
against  the  will  of  Providence  ?  God  gives  each 
of  his  creatures  a  sorrow.  Happiest  are  they 
who  know  how  to  extract  most  profit  from  so 
stern  a  discipline  !" 

"It  is  a  stern  discipline." 

"  Ay,  but  it  is  a  merciful  one  also." 

"  You  have  found  out  its  mercy?"     • 

"  I  shall,  one  day." 

"I  sincerely  hojje  you  will !  Do  you  remem- 
ber what  I  said  to  you  a  few  nights  before  your 
luckless  marriage?" 

"I  do,"  I  said,  sharply. 

"I  told  you,"  she  continued,  speaking  very 
slowly,  and  throwing  the  venom  of  bitterness 
into  each  of  her  words,  "  then,  what  cx))eriencc 
teaclies  you  now.  I  said,  'You  will  be  happy 
if  you  have  children.  But  a  childless  wife  no 
husband  can  really  love.  May  you  never  learn 
the  truth  of  my  \vords  !  Mr.  Gower  is  a  man 
of  high  principle,  and  under  any  circumstances 


132 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


be  will  show  you  much  consideration  and  tender- 
ness; but  if  yon  should  not  have  children,  you'll 
have  reason,  io  re<j;rct  that  you  did  not  remain 
the  matron  of  the  Marchioness  Street  Hospital.' " 

"Wicked,  cruel  woman,"  I  said,  hoarsely, 
"you  struck  that  arrow  into  my  heart  then,  and 
you  come  to-nij.;ht  to  turn  round  its  barbed 
tangs.  What  have  I  done  to  rouse  your  liate 
that  you  thus  come  to  exult  over  my  wretched- 
ness ?  Is  not  woman's  nameless  grief  sacred  to 
you  ?" 

"Then you 07-0  wretched?"  she  observed,  with 
composure,  taking  up  my  admission. 

"  Leave  me,"  I  said.  "  You  have  no  right  to 
speak  to  me  thus.     Oh,  that  we  were  men  !"' 

"But  we  are  not ;  we  are  only  two  weak  wo- 
men, privileged  to  cut  ourselves  into  pieces  with 
our  tongues !  Come,  Mrs.  Gower,  have  my 
words  proved  true,  or  have  they  noi?" 

"They  have  not  proved  true,"  I  answered,  in- 
dignantly. "Never  Avas  wife  loved  as  I  am 
loved  by  Julian  Gower." 

"He  treats  you  with  tenderness.  I  told  you 
he  would  treat  you  with  tenderness;  but  his  in- 
creasing gentleness  and  consideration  are  only 
employed  by  him  to  hide  from  you  the  growing 
coldness  of  his  affection  for  you.  They  arc  but 
artifices  to  s])are  you  the  pain  of  seeing  that  his 
love  for  }'ou  is  on  the  wane.  Yon  know  that. 
Why  even  now  he  is  casting  about  to  find  out 
some  one  to  love  better  than  yourself!" 

She  paused,  and  I  spake  next ;  but  not  until 
I  had  checked  my  passion  by  counting  the  sec- 
onds of  a  minute.  Then  I  said,  "  That  is  a  foul, 
false  caliimny,  and  none  but  a  very  wicked  wo- 
man could  have  uttered  it." 

"Ah!"  she  laughed,  quite  unmoved  by  my 
scornful  anger.  ' '  You  disbelieve  me.  I  gave 
you  a  prophecy  before  your  marriage ;  it  has 
fj(toved  true,  but  you  notwithstanding  refuse  to 
believ?  in  me.  You  Avant  a  sign — come,  I  will 
give  you  one.  On  your  next  birthdaj^  Mr.  Gow- 
er will  bring  home  with  him  a  boy,  just  about 
thirteen  years  old,  and  say  to  you,  '  Tibby,  love 
this  boy  for  his  sake  and  my  sake.  God  has 
given  us  no  children.  Let  us  then  make  this 
dear  little  lad  our  son.'  When  this  shall  hap- 
pen, you  will  remember  my  words  of  to-night, 
and  say,  'It  is  a  sign  that  what  sJie  says  will 
prove  true.'  Mrs.  Gower,  you'll  welcome  that 
child  more  with  your  lips  than  your  heart !  At 
first  you'll  generously  award  him  your  protec- 
tion ;  but  when  you  see  how  your  husband  loves 
him  better  than  yourself,  you'll  have  little  charity 
to  him.  Now  I  leave  you  for  the  present ;  but 
you  have  not  seen  the  last  of  me.  When  the 
boy  of  whom  I  tell  you  has  become  one  of  your 
family,  I'll  come  and  ask  you  whether  the  sign 
has  come,  and  whether  my  words  have  proved 
true.  Something  more  too,  before  we  part.  You 
have  called  me  a  calumnious  and  a  wicked  wo- 
man. Your  past  exj)ericnccs,  Mrs.  Gower,  should 
have  taught  you  charity.  Not  many  days  shall 
pass  over  your  head  before  you  say,  'That  wo- 
man's motives  of  action  arc  unknown  to  me,  and 
the  course  of  life  she  has  taken  is  mysterious ;  but 
I  can  not  believe  that  she  is  altogether  wicked.'  " 

She  did  not  say  this  angrily  or  vindictively, 
not  even  sternly.  While  I  trembled  with  anger 
at  the  insult  I  had  received,  she  was  perfectly 
cool,  and  collected,  and  comiiosed  under  the  re- 
proaches I  had  given  her. 


She  left  me  close  beside  my  garden  ;  for  during 
our  interchange  of  words  we  more  than  once  pro- 
gressed several  paces,  I  wishing  to  bring  our 
painful  interview  to  a  close,  and  she  bent  upon 
not  letting  me  escape  till  she  had  effected  the 
impression  she  desired  to  effect  u])on  my  mind. 

When  I  was  safe  within  the  inclosure  of  "The 
Cedars"  garden  I  felt  I  could  not  rest  indoors. 
That  which  I  had  heard,  and  the  woman  from 
whom  I  had  heard  it,  had  so  excited  me,  that  I 
felt  a  necessity  for  continued  bodily  motion.  Up 
and  down  the  gravel  drive  I  therefore  paced,  re- 
calling all  the  circumstances,  and  all  the  events 
of  my  previous  life  in  connection  with  tliis  wo- 
man, whose  mysterious  purpose  it  clearly  was  to 
track  me  into  every  retreat,  and  watch  not  only 
my  outward  conduct,  but  all  the  secret  workings 
of  my  inmost  heart.  Who  was  she  ?  When  did 
she  first  begin  her  supervision  over  me  ?  What 
was  the  motive  of  her  curious  persecution  ?  She 
knew  at  least  many  of  the  facts  of  my  early  his- 
tory. It  was  from  her  lips  that  I  had  first  learn- 
ed much  of  what  was  most  terrible  in  my  poor 
sister's  stoiy.  She  spoke  of  Julian  Gower  as 
though  she  maintained  a  similar  observance  over 
him.  And  now,  not  confining  herself  to  the 
past,  she  was  telling  me  what  was  to  occur  to 
me  in  the  future.  Who  was  this  child  that  my 
husband  would  soon  bring  home  and  adopt  ?  It 
was  clear  that  she  wished  to  imply  something 
more  than  that  the  child  would  supplant  me  in 
the  affections  of  my  husband. 

The  first  resolve  I  made  in  the  course  of  my 
meditations  was  to  tell  Julian,  immediately  he 
returned  from  London,  all  that  had  happened  to 
me  in  his  absence.  He  was  already  acquainted 
with  the  cii'cumstances  of  my  previous  inter- 
course with  my  mysterioiis  persecutor,  and  1 
would  tell  how  she  had  renewed  her  impertinent 
and  unfeeling  action  toward  me.  But  then,  I 
reflected  that  I  could  not  impart  to  him  all  the 
woman  had  said,  without  touching  upon  that  sad 
subject  on  which  I  could  not  speak  to  him,  though 
I  and  he  might  both  think  of  it  unceasingly. 

So  here  was  a  second  subject  in  my  married 
life,  on  which  my  lips  were  sealed  to  Julian ; 
and  I  began  to  fear  that  as  the  days  passed  over 
us  other  tojjics  would  arise  on  which  we  could 
not  hold  free  interchange  of  thought,  and  that 
so  ere  long,  like  many  married  couples,  we  should 
lead  separate  lives. 

This  was  the  most  torturing  thought  of  all ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   VISITOR   IN   MARCHIONESS    STREET. 

During  the  weeks  intervening  between  the 
events  narrated  in  the  last  chajiter  and  the  next 
anniversary  of  my  birthday  I  did  ncE  pass  a  day 
without  thinking  frequently  of  the  lady's  words. 
I  waited  impatiently  to  see  if  those  words  should 
be  fulfilled.  My  husband  of  course  saw  that  I 
was  occupied  with  an  engrossing  topic,  but  he 
neither  rallied  me  on  my  absence  of  mind,  nor 
made  any  comment  on  the  irritability  that  I  more 
tluin  once  evinc'ed  to  the  servants  and  those 
around  me.  Far  from  being  pleased  with  his 
jilacidity  and  forbearance,  I  construed  them  as 
indications  that  he  cither  read  so  plainly  the 
cause  of  my  discomposure  he  could  not  find  it 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


133 


in  his  heart  to  reproach  mc,  or  that  he  was  too 
iiiiich  engaged  with  a  ])rivate  scheme  of  his  own 
to  care  about  my  frctfiilncss. 

No  words  could  have  been  devised  with  greater 
cubtlety  to  rout  tlic  lia])i)y  feeling  existing  be- 
tween me  and  Julian  than  those  in  which  my 
■  persecutor  (as  I  was  pleased  to  term  her)  had 
given  form  and  precision  to  my  own  vague  sus- 
picion that  his  gentle  demeanor  was  but  the 
cloak  of  the  chagrin  and  mortification  which 
consumed  him  secretly.  I  caught  myself  watch- 
ing him  closely,  and  in  doing  so  I  learned  to  dis- 
cern that  I  in  my  turn  was  scrutinized  not  less 
assiduously  by  his  truthful  eyes.  And  thus  the 
form  and  genuine  spirit  of  suspicion  rose  up  be- 
tween us.  My  life  had  taught  me  self-control. 
I  therefore  never  in  his  presence  was  betrayed 
into  any  violent  expression  of  emotion,  t  never 
shed  a  tear  that  he  saw ;  and  if  I  smiled  less 
frequently  when  he  was  with  me,  I  still  did  my 
bist  to  make  him  cheerful  in  his  home.  But  that 
best  eflbrt  was  altogether  ineffectual. 

I  learned  to  be  thankful  that  his  commercial 
and  political  engagements  took  him  away  from 
"The  Cedars"  for  the  greater  part  of  his  even- 
ings, as  well  as  his  days.  Yes,  it  had  come  to 
that !  My  persecutor  had  spoken  truly  ;  for  I 
was  steeped  in  misery,  and  would  gladly  have 
surrendered  my  proud  position  as  the  wife  of 
Julian,  and  resumed  my  life  where  I  had  left  it 
some  two  years  and  eight  months  before,  so  that 
he  might  be  more  happily  married.  It  may  not 
be  supposed  that  my  loj^al  love  to  him  wavered, 
or  became  less  ardent.  Far  from  it !  Though 
the  seeds  of  a  terrible  distrust  of  his  love  for  mc 
had  been  planted  in  my  breast,  and  were  there 
germinating,  I  loved  him  more  than  ever.  In 
the  depths  of  my  consciousness,  beneath  the  fret 
and  trouble  above,  there  abode  a  steady  convic- 
tion that  he  was  unalterably  good. 

As  Julian,  while  the  misis  of  suspicion  were 
growing  thicker  and  darker  between  us,  steadily 
continued  to  discharge  the  duties  which  each 
day  brought  him,  so  did  I  persevere  in  attending 
to  all  the  graver  engagements,  among  which  my 
time  was  distributed.  I  was  more  regular  than 
ever  I  had  been  since  my  marriage  iu  visiting 
my  poor  dependents  iu  Highgate,  and  making 
arrangements  for  the  greater  efficiency  of  "The 
Cottage"  and  the  Marchioness  Street  Hospital. 

An  event  occurred  at  that  time  in  the  hos- 
pital which  even  added  to  my  perplexity  at  for- 
m?r  occurrences.  I  was  in  the  committee-room 
of  the  hospital  with  Mrs.  Monk  and  one  or  two 
other  ladies  interested  in  the  institution,  when 
the  matron  who  had  succeeded  me  entered,  and 
informed  us  that  !Miss  Grace  Temple  was  then 
in  the  part  of 'the  ho^ital  which  bore  her  name, 
and  was  talking  to  th^sick  children  in  the  wards. 
The  announcement  justified  the  expressions  of 
surprise  with  which  we  received  it.  Miss  Grace 
Temide  had  always  been  to  us  a  most  mysterious 
personage.  Through  her  solicitor  we  had  re- 
ceived the  £1000  which  enabled  us  to  take  the 
larger  of  our  two  houses,  and  since  that  time  her 
solicitor  had  transmitted  us  annually  the  munifi- 
cent subscription  of  £450.  She  was  therefore  by 
far  the  principal  benefactress  of  the  charity.  Yet 
no  one  connected  with  the  institution  had  ever 
been  able  to  learn  any  thing  of  her.  Her  name 
appeared  in  no  Directory.  And  beyond  having 
sent  the  poor  child,  entered  in  the  register  as 


Alfred  Jourdain,  to  the  hospital  for  treatment, 
it  did  not  appear  that  she  had  ever  made  any 
demand  on  the  powers  of  the  institution,  to  the 
support  of  which  slie  so  liberally  contributed.  It 
was  not  known  that  she  had  ever  before  entered 
the  walls  of  "  Grace  Temj>lc." 

From  the  matron's  account  it  appeared  that 
Miss  Temple,  on  hearing  that  the  lady-visitors 
were  then  present  in  the  hospital,  had  expressed 
a  wish  to  see  them  after  the  transaction  of  their 
ordinarj-  business,  in  order  that  she  might  learn 
from  them  some  particulars  relative  to  the  insti- 
tution. Of  course  on  hearing  this  we  were  anx- 
ious to  display  every  attention  to  the  great  bene- 
factress of  our  hospital ;  and  Mrs.  Monk  imme- 
diately went  to  the  wards  of  "  Grace  Temple" 
to  find  the  lady,  and  lead  her  to  us.  At  the 
termination  of  five  minutes  Mrs.  Monk  returned 
with  the  stranger.  Graceful  and  singularly  jire- 
possessing  in  style,  bat  not  beautiful.  Miss  Tem- 
ple entered,  bowing  slightly  to  us.  It  was  a  warm 
day,  so  she  was  dressed  lightly — in  gray  and 
black  silks.  Her  attire,  indeed,  was  half-mourn- 
ing. 

"I  have  to  offer  you  a  thousand  apologies  for 
disturbing  you,"  she  said,  with  agreeable  com- 
posure and  cordiality,  "  and  the  more  so  as  Mrs. 
JMonk  has  been  kind  enough  to  gratify  my  curi- 
osity about  this  admirably  managed  institution. 
But  as  I  asked  my  solicitor,  Mr.  Castleton,  to 
meet  me  here,  I  think  I  had  better  wait  till  he 
arrives.  Dear  me,  there  is  a  carriage  now  stop- 
ping at  the  door ;  and  there  is  a  ring  at  the  bell.  ^ 
Surely  that  must  be  Mr.  Castleton."  ' 

In  another  half  minute  the  door  was  opened, 
and  Mr.  Castleton,  the  solicitor,  who  had  more 
than  once  brought  Miss  Temple's  checks  to  the 
Committee  in  his  own  j)erson,  was  announced. 

Immediately  upon  his   entrance  Miss  Grace 
Temple  rose  from  the  seat  she  had  just  taken, 
and  bowing  to  us,  placed  her  hand  on  her  law- 
yer's proffered  arm  and  retired. 
"What  a  sweet-looking  woman  !" 
"What  a  fascinating  smile  she  has!" 
"In  what  admirable  taste  she  was  dressed!"' 
These  and  many  other  similar  exclamations 
were  the  criticisms  expended  on  Miss  Temple, 
as  the  carriage  containing  her  and  her  solicitor 
rolled  down  Marchioness  Street. 

"How  singular  she  should  never  have  been 
here  before!"  observed  one  of  the  lady-visitors. 
"  How  very  singular!"  was  a  general  chorus 
elicited  by  this  remark. 

When  there  was  silence,  I  said,  quietly, 
"  Jliss  Temple  has  been  here  before.    She  vis- 
ited the  hospital  for  something  less  than  a  min- 
ute when  I  was  matron." 

"  Indeed  !     Are  yon  sure,  Mrs.  Gower  ?" 
"  Quite  sure,"  I  answered.    "  Mrs.  Monk,  you 
may  remember  that  some  seven  years  ago  I  faint-, 
ed  away  in  Hyde  Park,  and  a  lady  brought  me 
home  to  the  hospital  in  h.er  carriage." 

"To  be  sure,  I  remember  it,"  answered  Mrs. 
Monk. 

"The  lady  who  befriended  mc  then  is  the 
same  lady  who  just  now  left  this  room." 

The  meeting  of  the  lady -visitors  broke  up, 
and  each  one  of  them  doubtless  told  the  story  of 
the  morning's  adventure  iu  her  family  circle; 
but  I  was  the  only  one  of  them  who  saw  the  ob- 
ject Miss  Grace  Temple  had  in  paying  this  un- 
expected visit  to  the  hospital.     She  had  said  to 


134 


OLIVIC  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


iiie  in  Ilighgate  Lane,  "Not  many  days  shall 
]>:'.ss  over  your  head  before  you  say  '  That  wo- 
man's motives  of  action  arc  unknown  to  me,  and 
I  lie  eoursc  of  life  she  has  taken  is  mysterious, 
but  I  can  not  believe  that  she  is  altogether  wick- 
ed.' "  At  least  in  that  she  had  sjtokcn  truly. 
My  persecutor's  name  was  Grace  Temple ;  and 
her  unobtrusive  benevolence,  manifested  in  the 
support  she  had  given  the  hospital  for  more  than 
twelve  years,  comiielled  me  to  acknowledge  to 
myself  that,  however  vexatious  her  conduct  had 
been  to  me  in  Highgate  Lane,  she  "could  not 
be  a  wicked  woman." 

But  if  her  appearance  iii  Marchioness  Street 
(in  all  her  fourth  a])parition  to  me)  caused  me  to 
modify  my  o]jinion  of  her,  it  greatly  increased 
the  mystery  with  which  she  was  envelojjcd.  Dis- 
ajipointed,  unhappy,  embittered,  site  might  be ; 
but  clearly  she  was  one  who  did  good  deeds, 
with  noiseless  perseverance.  I  yet  the  more  was 
impressed  by  a  sense  of  her  force  and  distinctive- 
ness of  character — a  sense  which  had  been  first 
created  by  the  quiet  dignity  of  her  bearing  in 
Hyde  Park.  But  what  could  be  her  object  in 
singling  me  out  for  attention  ?  There  was  clear- 
ly a  continuous  method  in  her  treatment  of  me 
and  my  affairs.  She  had  not  given  her  patron- 
age to  the  Children's  Hospital  till  I  had  been  its 
matron  for  two  years.  Was  I  the  attraction 
which  had  drawn  her  aid  to  the  institution  ? 
Or  had  she  for  the  first  time  become  aware  of 
my  existence,  by  seeing  my  name  on  the  reports 
as  matron  to  the  charity?  But  in  either  case, 
^  Iter  manifest  interest  in  mo  was  unaccountable. 
Why,  again,  should  she  be  curious  about  my 
husband's  happiness?  If  her  announcement  rel- 
ative to  the  child  he  intended  to  adojjt  should 
be  fulfilled  (and  momentarily  I  felt  more  certain 
of  its  fulfillment),  how  was  I  to  account  for  her 
knowledge  of  his  private  affairs,  or  even  her  in- 
fluence over  his  conduct,  which  the  prediction 
indicated  ?  Did  he  know  aught  of  her  ?  even 
as  she  knew  much  of  him  ? 

Julian  and  I  dined  together,  without  com- 
pany, that  day. 

When  the  servants  had  left  us  over  our  des- 
sert, I  said,  "Julian,  I  have  seen  Miss  Temple 
to-day." 

"  Miss  Temple  ?  ]\Iiss  Temple  ?''  he  repeated 
s.-veral  times,  apjiarently  endeavoring  to  recall 
v,!io  the  lady  might  be  ;  and  then  with  a  look  of 
sudden  enlightenment,  he  added,  "What,  not 
Miss  Grace  Temple,  the  benefactress  of  your 
hospital !     Surely  you  do  not  mean  her  ?" 

Clearly  he  had  no  private  reasons  for  feeling 
an  interest  in  her  name. 

I  described  to  him  very  minutely  her  personal 
appearance,  her  dress,  her  figure,  her  face,  her 
manner,  her  voice  ;  but  without  recalling  to  his 
mind  any  person  he  had  ever  seen.  There  could 
be  no  affectation  in  his  ignorance  of  the  lady. 
She  had  said  plainly  that  his  gentleness  to  me 
was  in  part  hypocritical ;  but  I  knew  that  Julian 
Gower  was  no  man  of  petty  artifices  and  small 
reserves. 

I  must  wait — wait  patiently,  till  the  lapse  of 
a  few  more  weeks  brought  my  birthday. 

One  thing,  however,  the  discovery  of  that 
morning  effected  for  my  comfort.  I  was  en- 
abled tdtiiink  of  my  mysterious  acquaintance  as 
Miss  Grace  Temple  instead  of  "  my  persecutor." 
It  put  my  mind  in  some  sort  of  ease  with  regard 


to  lier.  I  felt  that,  notwithstanding  her  cruel 
words  to  me,  I  could  trust  her  as  a  woman  of 
good  character  and  bimevolent  intentions,  how- 
ever eccentric  she  might  be.  And  there  was 
comfort  in  that. 

It  would,  I  argued,  clearly  be  useless  for  me 
to  attempt  to  discover  who  she  was.  Most  prob- 
ably her  name  of  Grace  Temple  was  assumed ; 
but  the  fact  of  her  benevolence  was  no  assump- 
tion. 

I  must  wait — wait  patiently  a  few  more  weeks. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    YOUNG    GENTLEMAN. 

But  though  I  was  easier  in  my  mind  ^^•ith  re- 
gard to  Miss  Grace  Temple,  my  life  with  my  be- 
loved husband  became  daily  more  full  of  pain. 
It  could  not  be  all  mere  suspicion  on  my  part. 
Why  his  eyes  no  longer  delighted  to  rest  upon  i 
me  with  their  old  expression  of  tenderness  !  He 
would  look  at  me  for  minutes  together — eagerly, 
inquisitively,  severely,  but  never  with  pure  gen- 
tleness. At  other  times  his  glance  avoided  mine, 
as  though  he  feared  to  betray  that  which  he 
wished  to  kee])  a  secret.  He  was  moody  and 
absorbed,  not  hearing  the  remarks  I  addressed 
to  him — or  if  he  heard  them  neglecting  to  reply 
till  minutes  had  elapsed,  and  my  mind  had  gone 
on  to  another  subject.  I  could  no  longer  indulge 
my  grief  in  silent  tears  during  the  still  hours  of 
night ;  for  he  became  sleepless,  and  to  avoid  his 
observation  I  had  to  feign  slumber  for  hours  to- 
gether, when  I  longed  for  the  relief  of  weeping, 
unwitnessed. 

The  summer  came,  the  flowers  and  the  green 
of  my  garden  bursting  out  with  brightness  and 
freshness.  The  birds  played  and  chattered  in 
the  trees,  the  young  ones  chirping  as  the  old 
ones  sang  out  bravely.  Our  "father  of  the 
trees"  stood  up  sere  and  leafless,  avoided  by  the 
birds.  They  had  no  pity  or  love  for  barren 
branches. 

"Tibby,"  said  Julian  to  me  one  morning, 
"  to-mon-ow  is  our  birthday." 

I  started. 

"W^liy,  child,"  he  returned,  in  answer  to  my 
shiver,  "do  you  dread  the  day?  Remember 
how  we  enjoyed  it  in  childhood !  What  happy 
birthdays  they  were  at  Farnham  Cobb  !  I  would 
give  the  best  bin  in  my  cellar  for  one  bottle  of 
the  grandfather's  'Madeira!'  You  don't  dread 
growing  old  ?" 

"No,  Julian,  it  is  the  appointed  order  for  liv- 
ing tilings ;  only  some  find  their  old  age  at  three- 
score years  and  ten,  and  some  in  childhood.  We 
must  all  wither  and  jiass  allay." 

"Ay,  but  it  is  too  early  for  us  to  talk  of  with- 
ering.    Wc  shall  be  only  forty-one  to-morrow." 

At  this  I  smiled,  and  said,  "We  are  quite  a 
3'oung  couple  still." 

"  Darling,"  continued  my  husband,  "business 
will  take  me  out  early  to-morrow.  But  I  shall 
be  back  early  in  the  afternoon.  So  do  not  be 
'at  home'  to  callers,  for  I  wish  to  spend  the 
anniversary  of  our  birthday  with  you  alone,  ac- 
cording to  our  M'ont." 

"  Of  course,  dear.  I  should  not  like  our  cus- 
tom to  be  changed." 

That  night  I  never  closed  my  eyes  for  a  single 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


135 


wink,  iind  by  six  o'clock  Julian  (having  also 
jiassed  a  restless  night)  rose,  and  left  "The  Ce- 
dars" in  my  open  carriage — having  borrowed  it 
of  rac  for  the  day. 

I  breakfasted  at  my  usual  hour,  and  after 
breakfast  I  spent  an  liour  or  more  in  the  garden, 
wuudcriug  what  the  day  would  bring  forth,  and 
then  to  get  diversion  from  tlie  painful  reflections 
that  crowded  upon  me,  I  walked  down  the  lane 
to  "The  Cottage,"  and  busied  myself  with  my 
colony  of  convalescents.  The  bonny  blue-eyed 
little  boy  was  still  with  them,  though  he  had  for 
several  days  been  restored  to  perfect  health. 
There  was  no  home  in  the  world  where  he  was 
needed,  and  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to 
part  with  him.  As  I  passed  through  the  wicket 
of  "  The  Cottage"  garden  I  found  him  busy,  dig- 
ging away  on  "his  plot,"  and  he  looked  up  at 
me  with  a  smilo  which  said,  "  Praise  me,  ma'am, 
for  my  industry."  And  I  praised  him  as  I  best 
could,  but  my  thoughts  wandered  from  him  to 
my  husband. 

What  would  the  day  bring  forth  ? 

As  the  clock  struck  two  I  re-entered  the  din- 
ing-room of  "The  Cedars,"  and  I  had  just  taken 
a  seat  on  the  sofa  to  rest  myself  after  my  exer- 
tion, when  I  heard  wheels  on  the  drive.  It  was 
my  carriage — I  knew  the  sound  of  it  well.  It 
passed  the  window,  but  it  bore  no  one  besides 
the  servants. 

"John,"  I  exclaimed,  running  out  into  the 
porch,  "  where  is  3'our  master  ?" 

"Master  got  out  of  the  carriage,  ma'am,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  hill,"  answered  John.  "  Mas- 
ter and  the  young  gentleman  thought  they'd  like 
the  walk  up  the  hill." 

The  youiKj  gentlemnn !  Grace  Temple  had 
spoken  the  truth !  Here  was  my  birthday  pres- 
ent! 

I  went  out  to  meet  them  ;  but  as  I  approached 
the  garden  gate  my  heart  failed  me  ;  and  just  as 
I  heard  their  voices  I  turned  from  tlie  cai-riage- 
way  into  a  by-path  winding  through  the  shrub- 
bery, and  stood  concealed  behind  a  wall  of  fir 
and  laurel  while  they  passed.  I  saw  them  as 
they  passed.  The  young  gentleman  was  a  slight, 
elegant  stripling,  with  bright  flaxen  hair  worn 
long,  so  that  it  curled  upon  the  collar  of  his  jack- 
et. Blue  eyes,  a  nose  somewhat  aquiline,  thin 
merry  lips,  and  an  animated  countenance ;  I  re- 
marked that  he  had  these  features  as  he  walked 
daintily,  looking  up  into  my  husband's  face  with 
a  delighted  expi-ession.  He  was,  moreover,  en- 
dowed with  a  singularly  musical  voice  and  laugh. 
I  heard  them  both  as  he  went  up  the  drive. 

Short  as  that  moment  of  observation  was,  I 
caught  the  aspect,  never  to  be  forgotten,  of  my 
husband's  face.  A  radiant  glory  was  uj)on  it. 
Never,  not  even  on  our  wedding,  not  even  on 
the  day  when  he  had  won  Etty's  promise  to  be 
his  wife,  had  I  seen  such  intense  happiness  cover 
him. 

Like  one  who  had  been  guilty  of  meanness  I 
slipped  out  stealthily  from  my  place,  and  follow- 
ing my  husband  and  the  young  gentleman,  speed- 
ily overtook  them. 

"  Tibby,"  said  my  husband,  "  let  me  introduce 
you  to  my  young  friend  Arthur  Wdliams,  who 
has  come  to  wish  you  many  happy  returns  of 
your  birthday,  and  spend  his  holidays  with  us. 
He's  at  school  at  Dr.  Renter's  of  Blackheath, 
and  has  a  vacation  of  six  weeks  before  him." 


"I  am  afraid  you  will  find  it  very  dull,  my 
dear  boy,"  I  said,  kiiidly,  "but  I  will  do  my  best 
to  make  you  enjoy  yourself.  We  have  a  caj)ital 
boys'  cricket-club  in  Ilighgate,  which  you  can 
join.'' 

Raising  his  gaze  from  the;  ground,  the  boy 
flashed  his  clear  honest  eyes  full  upon  me,  and 
the  color  rising  in  his  delicate  face,  he  answered, 
frankly,  and  at  the  same  time  with  a  pretty  as- 
sumption of  manly  courtesy,  "Thank  you,  Mrs. 
Gower.  I  will  gladly  join  the  cricket-club,  for 
I  am  very  fond  of  cricket ;  but  there  is  no  fear 
of  my  days  passing  slowly,  if  you  will  allow  mo 
the  privilege  of  waiting  on  you,  and  accompany- 
ing you  in  your  drives  about  the  neighborhood." 

"Good  Heavens,  my  dear  child !"  I  said,  hav- 
ing first  started  back  when  I  saw  his  full  face. 
"You  almost  alarnr  mc,  you  so  closely  resem- 
ble one  who  was  very  dear  to  mc,  but  is  now  in 
heaven." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  the  boy  said,  simply, 
as  tliougli  he  felt  he  had  just  received  a  compli- 
ment, "I  am  glad  you  like  me.  I  hope  I  shall 
remind  you  of  him  in  other  things  besides  my 
face." 

"My  friend  was  a  girl,"  I  answered.  "You 
may  not  be  augry,  Arthur. " 

The  boy  came  close  up  to  me,  and,  taking  my 
hand,  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Gow- 
er," he  said,  his  eyes  briglitening,  "I  never  was 
called  Arthur  before  by  a  lady !" 

He  had  kissed  my  hand  uninvited.  So  I  sa- 
luted him  on  the  forehead,  when,  far  from  being 
offended,  as  some  school-boys  would  have  been, 
his  face  showed  that  he  was  well  pleased  with 
my  attention. 

"I  know  who  it  is  you're  thinking  of,  Tibby," 
said  my  husband,  dryly. 

Julian  and  I  took  Arthur  round  the  garden, 
displaying  him  all  its  treasures  —  the  forcing- 
houses,  the  conservatory,  the  moat,  the  bowling- 
green.  Then  we  showed  him  the  stables ;  and 
my  husband  led  out  the  ^lony  set  apart  for  his 
young  visitor's  sole  use.  "You  can  ride,  of 
course,  Arthur?"  said  I.  "I  suppose  so,  Mrs. 
Gower.  At  least  I  soon  will,"  answered  Arthur, 
with  a  touch  of  crimson  on  his  cheeks. 

"Have  a  ride  before  dinner,"  said  my  hus- 
band. "Here,  Marshman,  while  Mr.  Williams 
is  with  us,  you  must  act  as  his  groom.  Bring 
his  pony  to  the  door  in  half  an  hour,  and  be 
yourself  ready  to  accompany  him.  If  he  should 
need  a  hint  about  managing  his  horse  you  needn't 
be  afraid  to  tell  him,  for  he  is  not  so  accustomed 
to  deal  with  horse-flesh  as  you  and  I  are.  Marsh- 
man.  And  now,  Arthur,  1  dare  say  if  you  make 
love  to  Mrs.  Gower  she'll  find  you  some  lunch 
before  you  start  on  your  equestrian  venture. 
Don't  ride  quite  as  far  as  Cornwall,  for  we  dine 
at  six." 

At  the  appointed  time  the  horses  were  at  the 
door,  and  my  guest  mounted  his  steed,  while  I 
looked  on. 

"You  wouldn't  think  I  had  never  been  on  a 
horse  before,  would  you,  Mrs.  Gower  ?  I  didn't 
get  up  like  a  tailor,  did  I  now  ?"  he  asked,  with 
a  merry  laugh. 

"Marshman,"  I  said,  in  a  low  voice,  to  my 
husband's  groom,  "be  very  careful  that  young 
gentleman  comes  to  no  harm." 

Of  course  this  entreaty  was  not  uttered  till  Ar- 
thur was  out  of  healing. 


136 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  AVORK. 


"I'll  take  care,  ma'am,"  answered  the  steady 
old  groom;  "but  a  young  gentleman  like  that 
young  gentleman  may  l)e  left  to  take  care  of 
himself." 

As  soon  as  our  guest  was  out  of  sight  my  1ms- 
band  led  mc  to  a  shady  part  of  the  lawn,  and, 
walking  by  my  side  on  the  grass,  began  a  con- 
versation with  me  by  going  straight  to  the  con- 
sideration of  our  young  visitor. 

"Til)l)y,"  said  my  husband,  "you  must  he 
very  careful  not  to  ask  that  boy  any  questions 
about  liis  parentage  ;  and  you  had  better,  as  far 
as  possible,  avoid  displaying  any  curiosity  about 
his  j)ast  experiences.  His  liistory  is  brieliy  this  : 
He  is  the  son  of  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine, 
whom  I  have  long  mourned  for  as  dead — a  friend 
to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  much  of  the  happi- 
ness I  have  experienced  in  life.  This  boy  is  that 
friend's  only  child.  But  unfortunately  there  is 
a  cloud  hanging  over  his  birth,  a  cloud  that  nei- 
ther you  nor  he  ought  to  ])enetrate  :  for  shame, 
and  disgrace,  and  sorrow  are  behind  it.  To  this 
day  he  has  never  known  his  mother's  name  nor 
seen  his  father's  face.  As  a  little  child  he  was 
educated  (I  might  almost  say  nursed)  at  Brigh- 
ton in  a  school  for  children,  presided  over  by  a 
lady ;  but  for  the  last  five  years  he  has  lieen  at 
Dr.  licnter's  school  at  Blackheatli,  spending  the 
holidays  with  the  doctor's  family.  His  face 
shows  that,  on  the  whole,  he  has  not  had  an 
unhaj)])y  existence ;  but  it  was  very  touching  to 
hear  him  an  hour  since  tell  you  that  he  had  nev- 
er before  been  called  'Arthur'  h}^  a  lady.  Doubt- 
less the  doctor's  daughters  arc  in  the  habit  of 
calling  him  by  his  surname." 

"Have  you  long  known  that  he  was  at  Black- 
heath  ?"  I  asked. 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  was  not  till  three  weeks 
since  that  I  saw  him  or  knew  of  his  abode.  A 
mere  accident  led  Dr.  Eenter  to  speak  of  the  boy 
(the  doctor's  business  with  me  was  on  an  alto- 
gether dift'crent  matter),  and  from  inquiry  I  learn- 
ed that  Arthur  was  my  old  friend's  son.  Tibb3% 
we  have  no  child  of  our  own.  Let  us  cherish  that 
promising  boy.  The  time  is  coming  when  he 
will  need  the  countenance  and  support  of  pow- 
eif  id  friends  to  shield  him  from  the  unkindness- 
cs  to  which  young  men  of  dubious  birth  are  sub- 
jected.    Let  us  love  him." 

It  had  come  true. 

But  why  did  the  advent  of  the  boy  disturb 
me  ?  More  especially,  why  did  the  tender  regard 
manifested  by  my  husband  for  tlie  delicate,  girl- 
ish, gallant  stripling  trouble  mc?  It  was  only 
that  very  morning  I  had  recalled  my  own  ro- 
mantic dream  of  getting  him  to  adopt  the  child 
of  some  poor  workman.  And  here  had  Julian, 
anticijiating  all  suggestions  from  me,  carried  out 
my  own  scheme  with  an  important  improvement 
— bringing  to  my  house  not  a  mechanic's  hardy 
brat,  but  an  elegant,  gently  nurtured  boy,  in 
whom  i)h}'sical  and  mental  graces  were  com- 
bined. Yet  I  was  far  from  pleased  with  the  oc- 
currence, much  as  I  was  prepossessed  in  favor 
of  my  new  com])anion. 

It  was  imjfossible  to  dislike  the  boy.  Had  he 
not  been  a  most  lovable  lad  I  sliould  have  con- 
ceived a  repugnance  to  him.  But  he  was  such 
a  courageous,  hearty,  merry,  leonine  youngster, 
and  withal  so  elegant,  and  dandified,  and  toy- 
like,  1  was  compelled  to  take  him  to  my  heart. 
Whatever  might  1)C  the  merits  or  the  demerits 


of  Dr.  Renter's  school,  the  lad  had  picked  up  nu- 
merous accomplishments  at  it.  He  sang  French 
as  well  as  English  ballads,  accompanying  him- 
self on  the  ])iano-forte ;  he  wrote  comic  verses 
after  the  manner  of  the  "Rejected  Addresses.'' 
and  rattled  away  in  the  most  delightfully  inno- 
cent, and  self-complacent,  and  joyous,  and  man- 
of-the-world  style.  After  he  had  been  with  us  a 
few  days,  I  asked  him  how  ic  came  that  the  Miss 
Renters  had  never  called  him  "Arthur."  "Oh, 
Mrs.  Gowcr,''  answered  the  urchin,  laughing, 
"that  would  never  do.  The  doctor  couldn't 
have  allowed  that.  If  they  had  called  me  'Ar- 
thur' one  week,  they'd  have  called  me  '  dear 
Arthur'  the  next  week,  and  then  who  knows 
what  would  have  happened  ?  So  I  am  always 
'  Williams  Tertius'  to  them.  Very  queer,  isn't  it, 
Mrs.  Gower  ?  But  they  are  nice,* dear  girls,  and 
in  holidays  they  take  me  with  them  wherever 
they  go,  only  they  make  it  a  rule  to  order  every 
one  to  call  me  'Williams  Tertius.'  It  doesn't 
hurt  me  of  course,  but  sometimes  it  makes  me 
feel  as  if  I  was  a  queer  sort  of  natural  eccentric- 
ity— a  kind  of  flower  instead  of  a  pure  boy. 
But  they're  jolly  girls,  and  M\ss  Christabel  "is 
the  neatest  hand  at  Les  Graces  that  I  ever  saw 
in  my  life." 

"Julian,"  I  said,  looking  sharply  round  at  my 
husband,  as  the  boy  ran  on  in  this  way,  "don't 
his  voice  and  his  pertness  put  you  in  mind  of 
some  one  as  well  as  his  face  ?" 

"Good  Heavens,  Tibby !"  exclaimed  Julian, 
almost  angrily,  "do  get  that  notion  out  of  your 
head.     It's  a  painful  one." 

"Perhaps,  Sir,"  said  Arthur,  "you'd  like  me 
to  speak  like  Punch,  with  a  squeak,  and  through 
my  nose,  and  then  I  sha'n't  put  Mrs.  Gower  so 
much  in  mind  of  some  one." 

The  boy  was  a  great  diversion  to  us.  He 
treated  me,  and  I  do  believe  thought  me  one  of 
the  most  benignant  and  important  ladies  in  the 
world.  Doubtless  the  size  and  freshness  of  our 
house,  the  garden,  the  stable  full  of  horses,  our 
carriages,  and  all  the  other  appointments  of 
"The  Cedars"  greatly  impressed  and  delighted 
the  inexperienced  child,  causing  him  to  esteem 
the  mistress  of  so  splendid  an  establishment  more 
highly  than  he  w^ould  have  done  had  he  found 
her  living  in  a  dingy  cottage.  The  attentions 
and  the  flatteries  that  he  lavished  upon  me  were 
innumerable ;  the  extravagant  and  magnificent 
terms  in  which  he  ]jaid  me  the  most  elaborate 
compliments,  rendering  his  courtly  homage  pe- 
culiarly naive,  and  innocent,  and  piquant  in  cft'ect. 
Every  morning  I  had  a  flower  on  my  breakfast 
plate,  brought  by  him  from  the  garden  for  my 
especial  delectation,  and  everj'  night  he  left  me 
with  an  assurance,  dressed  u])  in  dozens  of  dift'er- 
cnt  dressespf  verbiage,  that  "the  minutes  flowed 
so  quickly  in  my  society,  he  never  knew  the  prop- 
er time,  or  the  desire  to  withdraw  for  the  refresh- 
ment of  his  pillow." 

He  was  the  most  active,  and  efficiently  active 
boy  I  ever  met.  He  had  alwnxsjust  done  some- 
thing. We  never  heard  of  his  achievements,  in 
their  prei)aration  or  progress,  but  only  at  the 
moment  of  their  triumphant  accomplishment,  or 
just  afterward.  He  made  himself  quite  at  home 
at  "The  Cedars"  and  with  our  neighbors  at 
Highgate,  being  at  the  close  of  his  six  weeks' 
visit  altogether  a  more  important  ])erson  in  the 
j)ari>li  than  his  host.     Every  day  lie  would  slip 


i 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


137 


out  into  the  lane,  ivncl  be  absent  for  three  or  four 
liours  gathering  gossip  and  news  for  (Jiir  delecta- 
tion at  dinner.  One  day  lie  came  hack  from  liis 
trip  into  the  lane  (whenever  Ik;  left  "  Tlie  Cedars" 
garden  it  was  "to  take  a  saunter  down  the 
lane"),  habited  in  his  cricketing  suit  of  white 
flannel,  and  swaying  his  bat  to  and  fro  with  signs 
of  elation.  He  had  just  luon  a  match  at  single 
■wicket.  On  another  occasion  he  presented  him- 
self before  me  at  the  close  of  the  afternoon  with 
similar  exultation,  and  informed  me  that  he  had 
just  won  tlie  sweepstakes  at  a  hurdle-race.  It 
was  rather  jolly.  "Won  the  sweepstakes  at  a 
hurdle-race!  what  can  you  mean,  Arthur?"  I 
asked  with  surprise.  On  explanation  it  appear- 
ed that  Arthur  Williams,  Esquire,  of  "The 
Cedars,"  Highgate,  had  got  uj)  a  hurdle-race 
on  the  green,  with  seven  other  mounted  lads. 
They  had  subscribed  five  shillings  each  for  the 
entertainment,  of  which  sum  they  had  paid  £1  to 
a  man  who  fixed  up  the  hurdles  for  them,  and 
£1  they  had  set  aside  as  the  "  winner's  purse." 
And  the  winner's  purse  had  fallen  to  iNIr.  Arthur 
Williams,  who  had  organized  the  whole  affair, 
and  rode  his  pony  in  his  cricket  jacket  and  blue 
cap.  Juiian  was  immensely  tickled  at  the  boy's 
narrative  of  this  "  event  of  the  turf;"  but  I  don't 
think  he  was  quite  so  well  pleased  when  he 
learned  that  Arthur,  to  create  a  more  striking 
effect  on  the  race-course,  had  cut  the  beautiful 
bush-tail  of  his  magnificent  pony  to  make  it  re- 
semble "a  regular  blood  racer."  "I  don't  know 
how  to  account  for  it,  Tibby,"  said  Julian  with 
good-humored  malice,  in  revenge  for  the  injury 
done  to  the  pony's  tail,  "  but  we  always  hear  of 
Arthur's  contests  when  he  iclns,  but  never  when 
he  loses."  "Why,  Mr.  Gower,"  responded  the 
boy  with  an  atidacious  simplicity  that  deprived 
my  husband's  sarcasm  of  all  its  power,  "of  course 
I  don't  tellyou  when  I  lose.  That  would  neverdo. 
Eor  then  you'd  laugh  at  me,  instead  of  ivith  me." 

I  soon  saw  that  my  husband  had  conceived  an 
a\-dent  affection  for  the  boy.  He  took  him  the 
round  of  the  theatres  and  places  of  public  amuse- 
ment— to  the  operas  and  princijjal  houses  of 
dramatic  entertainment.  They  rode  in  the  Park 
together,  Arthur  all  spick  and  span  in  his  best 
dandy  habiliments,  with  pink-tinted  gloves,  and 
a  gold-headed  whip  with  which  my  husband  pre- 
sented him.  Julian  carried  him  off  one  evening 
to  tlie  soiree  of  a  scientific  institution  ;  but  that 
entertainment  Arthur  frankly  assured  me  was 
".the  awfulest  bore  he  had  ever  been  let  in  for." 
So  to  make  amends  for  this  "awfulest  bore," 
Julian  gave  him  what  the  child  afterward  desig- 
nated as  "great  fun,"  in  the  shape  of  a  dinner  at 
the  Conservative  Club,  where  Mr.  Arthur  threw 
himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  was  good  enough 
to  praise  tiie  wine,  although  iu  his  opinion -it 
"  would  have  been  all  the  better  for  a  little  age." 

To  me,  as  I  have  said,  his  gallantry  was  un- 
bounded ;  and  it  really  made  me  quite  light- 
hearted  to  have  him  by  my  side  during  my  drives. 
To  accompany  me  he  always  made  himself  the 
most  exquisite  little  dandy  imaginable,  putting 
on  fresh  light  gloves,  and  arranging  every  item 
of  his  toilet  with  extreme  care.  He  was  such  a 
sunny,  dainty  little  fellow,  that  I  always  selected 
the  brightest  and  prettiest  drives  when  he  was 
my.companion.  Once,  however,  I  took  him  into 
the  "  old  law  neighborhood,"  and  left  him  in  the 
carriage  in  jNIarchioness  Street  while  I  went  into 


the  hospital.  On  our  way  down  to  tlie  institu- 
tion, I  did  my  best  to  interest  him  in  its  object 
and  operations ;  but  when  I  alighted  fr(;m  the 
carriage  his  only  expression  of  sympathy  with 
my  labors  was  to  say,  "  Poor  little  wretches!  I 
am  sure,  my  dear  Mrs.  Gower,  I  hope  you  won't 
catch  any  thing  by  being  so  good  to  them !  It 
must  be  very  dangerous!"  And  having  said 
this,  the  young  gentleman  lounged  l)ack  in  my 
pliaeton  in  a  most  languishing  fashion,  and  jnit 
up  one  of  his  patent-leather  boots  on  the  ojjposite 
cushion,  so  that  he  might  admire  it  at  his  case. 

I  was  quite  irritated  with  his  careless  manner ; 
and  I  punished  him  by  being  much  longer  than 
was  necessary  in  the  hospital.  Indeed  he  had  to 
wait  for  me  nearly  two  hours  at  the  door  of 
"Grace  Temple." 

On  returning  to  "  The  Cedars"  the  first  thing 
I  did  was  to  go  to  Julian  and  say,  "My  dear, 
you  told  me  the  other  day  that  you  gave  Arthur 
a  tip  of  a  £5  note,  so  that  he  might  return  to 
Blackheath  well  supplied  with  cash." 

"  Yes,  what  of  that?"  answered  Julian. 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  number  of  the  note?" 

"  Certainly,  here  is  the  number  marked  down 
in  my  pocket-book,  40,5G2." 

"I  thought  so!"  I  exclaimed  triumphantly. 
"  While  I  was  in  the  hospital  this  morning  that 
note  was  slipped  into  the  contribution  box,  and 
that  little  monkey  did  it." 

"By  Jove!"  cried  Julian.  "What  a  splen- 
did lad  he  is  I  But  why  do  you  call  him  a 
monkey?" 

When  I  told  Julian  of  the  boy's  superb  airs, 
just  before  he  gave  all  his  pocket-money  to  the 
sick  children,  our  gratification  and  pride  in  his 
conduct  did  not  preclude  us  from  indulging  in 
a  hearty  laugh. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
A  caller's  card. 

I  BECAME  so  attached  to  Arthur,  that  toward 
the  close  of  his  visit  I  almost  ceased  to  trouble 
myself  about  the  mysteries  connected  with  his 
appearance  at  "  The  Cedars."  Both  I  and  Ju- 
lian were  so  much  the  happier  for  his  presence 
that  I  not  only  felt  grateful  to  him,  but  con- 
ceived for  him  a  love  similar  to  that  which  mo- 
tliers  feel  for  their  own  offspring.  But  even  while 
he  was  with  us,  and  while  his  company  recon- 
ciled me  in  some  degree  to  all  its  circumstances, 
I  was  not  pleased  with  the  inordinate  fondness 
that  Julian  exhibited  to  him,  whereas  I  never 
praised  the  boy,  or  declared  my  affection  for 
liim,  without  a  flood  of  satisfaction  and  delight 
rising  in  my  husband's  face.  And  when  I  ob- 
served that  diflerence  between  us,  I  began  to 
seek  after  its  cause.  How  was  I  to  account  for 
it  ?  What  was  its  explanation  ?  Did  Julian  love 
him  more  than  I  did  ?  If  so,  what  was  the  cause  ? 
what  especial  hold  had  the  boy  upon  his  heart  ? 
Then,  looking  at  the  subject  from  another  point 
of  view,  I  would  regard  it  as  evidence  that  Ju" 
lian  was  only  more  anxious  than  I  to  have  the 
amusement  and  kindly  pleasure  of  seeing  a  child 
moving  about  our  house.  But  that  view  of  the 
matter  greatly  troubled  me,  as  it  seemed  to  in- 
volve reproach  to  me. 

When  Arthur  returned  to  Blackheath,  it  was 


188 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


with  n  promise  that  he  would  spend  his  next 
s  holidays  witli  us.  After  he  had  pone,  the  house 
was  strangely  altered.  In  a  few  days  Jidian  be- 
came again  silent,  and  absorbed,  and  moody. 
"He  was  happy,"  I  said  to  myself,  "while  Ar- 
thur was  with  us ;  but  now  that  the  boy  has  taken 
his  doparturc  he  finds  my  society  flat  and  weari- 
some." lie  loves  him,  I  thought,  better  than  he 
does  me  ;  and  in  five  minutes  I  was  fretting  with 
jealousy,  and  I  saw  that  I  should  never  be  hap- 
py with  an  adopted  child  whom  my  husband 
loved.  I  desired  such  an  object  on  which  to 
expend  the  force  of  ?«^  surplus  affection  ;  but  I 
could  not  endure  the  thought  of  letting  my  hus- 
band have  the  same  gratification.  It  is  with 
shame  I  own  I  was  so  selfish,  that  it  never  oc- 
curred to  me  my  husband  would  have  an  equally 
valid  reason  for  not  liking  me  to  expend  the 
warmth  of  my  heart  on  a  child  not  really  his 
own.  Let  childless  couples  rely  on  me.  If  a 
childless  husband  and  wife  love  each  other,  they 
must  reconcile  themselves  to  their  hard  lot  as 
they  best  can.  An  adopted  child  would  only  be 
a  cause  of  jealousy  and  pain  to  each.  Nature's 
decrees  can  not  be  overridden  by  a  mere  artifi- 
cial arrangement. 

So  much  was  this  the  case  with  me,  that  though 
I  wrote  to  Arthur  three  days  after  he  returned 
to  Blacklieath,  and  told  Julian  1  had  done  so, 
it  vexed  me  at  the  end  of  the  week  to  see  my 
husband  sitting  down  at  his  desk  to  pay  the  boy 
the  same  attention. 

I  have  just  spoken  of  Julian's  silence  and 
moodiness.  They  lasted  for  ten  days,  and  then 
they  were  exchanged  for  a  boisterous  hilarity, 
such  as  I  had  never  before  witnessed  in  him. 
He  literally  frightened  me  with  the  extrava- 
gance he  committed,  running  and  leaping  on  our 
lawn  like  a  school-boy,  laughing  at  and  making 
a  jest  of  every  ordinary  subject  that  engaged  his 
attention.  I  asked  him,  with  absolute  fear  and 
trembling,  how  he  could  account  for  his  high 
spirits ;  but  he  either  only  put  me  off  with  a  kiss 
or  began  to  talk  in  a  rapturous  way  about  Ar- 
thur. "Tibby,"  he  cried,  "you  are  not  forty- 
one — I  am  not  forty-one.  I  am  younger  in  heart, 
limb,  life,  than  I  was  when  I  returned  from  South 
America.  My  mid-summer  holidays  with  ?«y  boy 
Arthur  have  brought  youth  back  to  me  again. 
Oh,  Trbby,  how  I  love  the  jn-etty  scamp,  and 
thank  you  for  taking  him  to  your  affection  ! 
We'll  make  a  man  of  him. .  He  shall  head  his 
generation — lead  it  in  wealth,  intellect,  honor, 
achievement!" 

Yes !  his  love  for  me  had  come  to  that — f/ratl- 
tude  hec.cmse  T  cared  for  another  ! 

When  he  had  spent  a  few  days  in  this  mad, 
spasmodic  exultation,  and  while  his  spirits  were 
still  at  the  highest  pitch  of  their  unnatural  ex- 
citement, he  informed  me  that  he  had  to  leave 
home  on  special  and  very  important  business  for 
ten  days  or  a  fortnight.  He  told  me  neitlicr 
where  he  was  going  nor  with  what  object.  Half 
an  hour  after  making  the  announcement  he  was 
oiF  to  catch  the  train,  and  I  was  left  by  myself 
to  sufi^'er  under  the  miserable  jealousy  and  dis- 
trust of  him,  which  were  corroding  all  the  good 
qualities  of  my  nature.  I  could  not  endure  to 
think  tliat  he  loved  tliat  jilnything  boy  better 
than  1h;  loved  me.  What  had  been  the  words  of 
that  mysterious  woman  who  ])ersisted  in  influ- 
encing iiu!  and  him — yes,  lam,  though  he  pro- 


fessed to  be  ignorant  of  her  existence  ?  "Mrs. 
Gower,"  she  had  said,  "you'll  welcome  that 
child  more  with  your  lips  than  with  your  heart. 
At  first  you  will  generously  award  him  your  ])ro- 
tection,  but  when  you  see  that  your  husband 
loves  him  better  than  yourself  you'll  have  little 
charity  to  him." 

Every  word  she  had  spoken  had  come  true.  I 
had  been  compelled  to  modify  my  harsh  ojnnion 
of  her  !  The  boy  had  been  brought  to  my  house 
on  the  very  day  she  had  named,  and  already  I 
was  beginning  to  feel  resentment  to  him  for  hav- 
ing stolen  from  me  the  affection  of  my  husband  ! 

I  had  spent  the  whole  morning  next  after  mj 
husband's  departure  brooding  over  these  facts, 
when  at  a  customary  calling  hour  a  carriage 
drove  up  to  the  entrance  of  my  house.  I  v.as  at 
the  time  walking  in  a  distant  part  of  the  garden, 
and  as  I  did  not  recognize  the  equipage,  I  re- 
mained where  I  was  till  a  servant  should  come 
and  tell  me  the  names  of  my  visitors.  As  I 
waited  at  my  station  of  observance  I  remem- 
bered witli  regret  that  I  had  not  ordered  the 
servants  to  refuse  me  to  callers. 

In  a  minute  the  servant  came  across  the  lawn 
to  me,  bearing  the  caller's  card. 

On  the  card  was  this  inscription — Miss  Grace 
Temple. 

For  a  few  seconds  I  felt  so  indignant  at  her 
intrusion  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  sending  the 
servant  back  with  word  that  I  could  not  see  her. 
But  if  no  other  motives  had  influenced  me,  after 
two  or  three  moments'  reflection,  curiosity  would 
alone  have  determined  me  not  to  act  on  my  hasty 
resolution.  Whoever  she  was,  however  much 
she  had  tried  to  poison  my  peace  of  mind,  what- 
ever her  i)urpose  might  be  toward  me,  she  held 
the  key  to  the  mysteries  which  had  for  days  been 
cruelly  torturing  me.  If  I  was  to  obtain  the  in- 
formation for  wliich  I  yearned,  the  acquisition 
would  be  made  through  her.  I  dared  not  set 
myself  in  antagonism  to  her. 

So  I  told  the  man  to  take  back  an  assurance 
to  the  lady  that  I  would  be  with  her  almost  im- 
mediately. 

I  consumed  a  moment  in  regaining  my  com- 
posure. Then  I  walked  slowly  across  the  lawn 
to  my  house.  On  my  way  through  the  hall  I 
told  my  servant  that,  if  any  other  callers  came, 
they  were  to  be  told  I  was  so  particularly  engaged 
that  tlicy  could  not  see  me.  With  Miss  Tcnijjle's 
carriage  standing  before  my  door,  the  man  could 
not  well  refuse  them  with  a  simple  assertion  that 
I  was  not  at  home. 

Having  taken  this  precaution  against  inter- 
ruption, I  entered  my  drawing-room,  and  stood 
fi.ice  to  face  with  Miss  Grace  Temple. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PLEASANT   SUGGESTIONS. 

She  was  standing  by  one  of  the  windows  sur- 
veying the  garden  when  I  entered.  Dressed  in 
the  same  colors  and  style,  wearing  the  same  lofty 
composure  on  her  delicate  face,  advancing  to- 
ward me  with  the  same  elegant  carriage  as  1 
had  remarked  on  our  previous  interviews,  and 
covered  with  all  that  best  womanly  refinement 
and  grace  by  which  ladit  s  are  to  be  distinguish- 
ed from  won'ien  of  humbler  degree,  Miss  Temple 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


139 


(notwithstanding  my  rotiyed  ;inta<^onism  to  her) 
impressed  me  more  favorably  than  ever.  Her 
persecution  and  impertinence  were  not  tliose  of 
a  vulgar  adventurer.  I  could  not  do  otherwise 
than  treat  her  with  the  resj)ect  due  to  one  of  my 
own  sex  and  social  condition.  Even  though  it 
was  her  whim  to  sport  with  my  feelings,  I  felt 
the  necessity  of  patiently  enduring  the  torture. 

A  sense  that  it  was  prudent  to  conciliate  her 
made  me  throw  more  than  ordinary  cordiality 
into  my  maimer,  as  I  assured  her  that  it  gave 
mo  great  pleasure  to  see  her  in  my  house. 

'•No,  Mrs.  Gower,"  she  said,  quickly,  "you 
do  not  feel  great  pleasure  in  seeing  me  in  this 
pretty  drawing-room.  You  experience  the  un- 
easiness of  an  irritation  which  you  deem  it  im- 
prudent to  express,  and  just  a  little  hope  that 
the  cause  of  my  calling  on  you  may  not  be  an 
evil  one.  Surely  such  feelings  do  not  constitute 
(jreat  pleasure.'" 

"My  words,"  I  answered,  with  as  much  state- 
liness  as  my  diminutive  iigure  and  insignificant 
presence  would  permit  me  to  assume,  "  were  in- 
tended to  imply  that  since  you  had  paid  me  the 
compliment  of  a  visit,  I  was  anxious  to  receive 
you  courteously,  as  though  it  gave  me  great 
pleasure  to  do  so." 

"For  that  I  sincerely  thank  you,  Mrs.  Gower. 
I  trust  the  day  will  still  come  when  such  a  wel- 
come will  be  accorded  to  me  by  you,  not  in  mere 
courtesy,  but  in  genuine  kindliness  of  feeling. 
We  ought  to  be  friends.  You  know  well  how 
large  a  share  of  my  sympathy  you  have  had  for 
years.  And  now  I  do  most  heartily  pity  you. 
You  are  very  unhappy." 

"  I  am  not  unhappy." 

' '  Are  you  not  ?  Well !  have  my  words  proved 
true  ?" 

"Much  that  you  told  me  should  transpire  has 
taken  place." 

"  Good !  Your  husband  br6ught  Arthur  Will- 
iams home  to  you  on  your  last  birthday.  You 
have  learned  that  the  calumnious  and  wicked 
woman  who  spoke  to  you  some  weeks  since  in 
the  lane  by  your  garden  fence  is  not  so  utterly 
bad  as  you  imagined.  And  now  you  are  mad 
with  jealousy  because  your  husband  loves  the 
boy." 

To  this  speech  I  made  no  answer. 

"You  would  like  to  find  out  the  secret  of  Ar- 
thur's parentage  ?"  she  resumed,  after  a  minute's 
silence,  in  which  she  was  evidently  considering 
how  she  should  proceed.  "  You  say  to  yourself, 
'  What  can  that  mystery  be  ?  Does  it  cover  any 
reason  which  can  account  for  Julian's,  infatu- 
ation with  that  school-boy  dandy  ?'  " 

"I  should  like  to  know  the  secret  of  the  child's 
birth,"  I  admitted. 

"  Of  course  you  would.  What  has  Mr.  Gower 
told  you  about  it?" 

"That  the  boy — encountered  accidentally — 
was  the  son  of  a  dear  friend  of  his  early  days — 
that  a  cloud  hung  over  his  origin,  beneath  wliich 
lay  sorrow  and  shame.  He  told  me  so  much, 
and  just  nothing  more." 

"Then  you  have  no  idea  who  the  boy's  mother 
was?" 

"None.  I  shrunk  from  inquiring,  for  I  pre- 
sumed the  worst." 

"You  did  well  to  do  so!"  was  Miss  Temple's 
comment,  made  bitterly  and  mockingly.  "  It  is 
prudent  always  to  infer  the  worst.     Did  it  not 


occur  to  you  that  the  dear  friend  of  your  hus- 
band's early  days  miglit  be  the  boy's  mother, 
about  whom  you  sluunk  from  inquiring,  though 
you  presumed  the  worst?" 

I  started  from  my  seat  as  she  said  this,  and 
advancing  a  step  toward  the  sofa  on  which  she 
sat  looked  into  the  cold  gentleness  of  her  face. 

"You  remember,  he  never  told  you  that  the 
dear  friend  of  his  youth  was  a  man." 

"You  are  right,  Miss  Temple,"  I  said,  re- 
covering mv  self-control  and  resuming  mv  SL-at. 
"What  then?" 

"Nay — nay — let  me  ask  the  questions;  you 
shall  answer  them.     Hei'c  is  one.     lieply  to  it, 
Mrs.  Gower.     Is  not  that  pretty  boy  the  faithful 
reproduction  of  your  sister  Etty,  who  died  yeai-s  / 
since  in  the  slough  of  ignominy  ?" 

"Woman!"  I  exclaimed,  starting  again  from 
my  seat,  "  why  do  you  torture  me  with  these 
questions  ?  Tell  me  what  you  have  to  communi- 
cate at  once,  and  do  not  cause  m^needless  suf- 
fering. Are  you  so  fond  of  inflicting  pain  that 
you  can  not  deny  yourself  the  pleasure  of  pro- 
longing my  agonies  ?  You  who  have  been  track- 
ing my  steps  for  years — you  who  told  me  the 
awful  story  of  my  sister's  guilt — you  who  brought 
Arthur  into  this  house — you  who  can  influence 
my  husband,  as  well  as  myself,  by  some  secret 
and  fearful  source  of  knowledge — you  know  w^hat 
my  answers  to  your  questions  must  be." 

"Enough;  you  need  not  enti'eat  me  so  pas- 
sionately. You  w^ere  struck  by  the  likeness  of 
the  child  to  your  sister  ;  you  know  that  your  hus- 
band (although  he  strives  to  conceal  it  from  yon) 
is  not  less  struck  by  the  likeness ;  and  in  your 
own  heart  you  believe  that  this  remarkable  like- 
ness is  the  real  cause  of  Mr.  Gower's  strong  and 
sudden  aftection  for  the  boy.  And  this  belief 
annoys  you  far  more  than  the  mere  recognition 
of  the  fact  that  you  ai'e  superseded  in  your  hus- 
band's heart.     Such  was  his  love  for  '  Etty' — " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  we  called  her 
'  Etty?'  "  I  exclaimed. 

"Tut !"  she  laughed.  "Is  not  the  name  en- 
graved on  the  memorial  in  the  burial-gronnd 
of  this  parish  ?  Let  me  go  on.  You  say,  '  Such 
was  his  love  for  Etty  that  even  the  semblance  of 
her  features,  in  a  boy  he  had  never  before  seen, 
has  that  powerful  effect  upon  him' — and  yon 
are  almost  jealous  of  your  dead  sister!  Now 
I'll  put  another  thought  into  your  head,  and 
you  sliall  tell  iiie  what  you  think  of  it.  I  have 
heard  of  men,  disappointed  in  their  loves,  who 
drug  themselves  into  temporary  forgetfulness  of 
anguish  by  indulging  a  base  passion  for  women 
who  are  women — however  much  we  may  scorn 
and  loathe  them.  Such  men,  I  have  been  told, 
are  drawn  by  an  irresistible  fascination  to  those 
who  most  closely  resemble  the  objects  of  their 
luckless  wooing.  Let  us  imagine  a  case.  Suj)- 
pose  that  Mr.  Gower,  soon  after  your  sister  Etty 
cruelly  broke  her  troth  to  him,  fell  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  frail  girl — in  person  and  in  vivacity 
of  manner  the  exact  counterpart  of  Etty.  Sup- 
])ose  that  such  a  woman  became  his  mistress,  and 
the  mother  of  a  child  dishonored  by  its  birth. 
Suppose  that,  growing  weary  of  the  vile  thralldom 
of  such  a  woman,  Mr.  Gower,  after  a  few  years' 
exjierience  of  her  vicious  nature,  separated  him- 
self from  her — making  provision  for  the  liberal 
education  of  the  child.  Suppose  that,  after  an 
interval  of  years,  he  learned  your  forlorn  cojidi- 


140 


OLIVE  BLAKPrs  GOOD  WORK. 


tioii,  and  in  that  spii'it  of  Quixotic  generosity  by 
vvhicli  nine  finc-heartcd  men  out  of  every  ten 
mar  flieir  fortunes,  said,  'I'll  make  that  poor 
little  Tibby  Tree  my  wife,  and  give  her  a  glimpse 
of  happiness  after  her  long  exjiericnce  of  gloom. 
I  have  outgrown  the  age  when  a  man  in  choosing 
a  wife  ranks  a  pretty  face  above  every  other  con- 
sideration. She  will  give  me  children  to  love ; 
and  I  have  enough  confidence  in  her  sweetness 
of  disposition  and  in  her  general  intelligence  to 
feel  sure  that  she  will  make  me  a  cheerful  fire- 
side companion,'  Suppose  him  (as  he  is)  mar- 
ried to  you,  and  disa])i)ointed  in  the  one  antici- 
pation which  made  him  feel  it  right  to  indulge 
his  commiseration  for  the  matron  of  the  Sick 
Children's  Hospital.  Suppose  that,  after  nearly 
three  years  of  bitter  and  fruitless  expectancy,  he 
formed  the  resolution  to  bring  his  own  dishon- 
ored child  into  his  home,  and  see  if  you  could 
not  be  induced  to  love  the  lad  as  your  own  child, 
before  you  ^iiscovered  him  to  be  his  offspring. 
Suppose  that  he  carried  out  this  scheme ;  and 
that,  when  you  saw  his  eyes  grow  eloquent  of 
pride  at  the  dandy  airs  and  dashing  manliness 
of  our  little  'man-of-tho-world,'  school-boy  Ar- 
thur, he  loved  the  child  not  merely  because  he 
resembled  Elty,  but  far,  far  more,  because  lie  ivas 
his  own  son.     What  say  j'ou  to  this?" 

"That  your  suggestions  are  groundless,"  I 
answered,  as  firmly  as  I  could,  while  faintness 
made  my  brain  swim,  "and  utterly  false.  My 
heart  tells  me  they  are  false  !" 

"  What !  is  it  false  that  your  husband  married 
out  of  pity  rather  than  love  ?" 

I  heard  this  cruel  taunt ;  but  I  did  not  reply 
to  it.  My  womanly  pride  and  delicacy  were  mat- 
ters of  no  consideration  by  the  side  of  the  accu- 
sations ]ireferred  against  my  husband.  When  I 
replied  it  was  to  reject  them,  not  to  ward  off 
from  myself  the  strange  and  embittered  woman's 
scorn. 

"  You  ask  me  what  I  think  of  your  sugges- 
tions—made under  I  know  not  what  unworthy 
motive.  I  tell  you  that  your  insinuations  are 
groundless.  I  answer  now,  just  as  I  would  have 
answered  if  I  had  never  married  Julian  Gower 
— Mij  husband  is  iimittcrabh/,  unalterabljj  good.'" 

"Mrs.  Gower,"  Miss  Temple  said,  after  a 
pause,  in  an  altered  voice,  the  changed  tone  of 
which  greatly  relieved  me,  "  you  must  remem- 
ber that  I  have  not  put  forward  my  suppositions 
as  any  thing  but  suppositions.  Far  be  it  from 
me  to  shake  your  conviction  in  your  husband's 
goodness — a  conviction  which  I  must  readily  ad- 
mit I  sliarc  with  you.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 
do ;  I'll  take  j'ou  with  me  in  my  carriage,  and 
put  you  tacc  to  face  with  Arthur  Williams's  mo- 
ther— his  own  mother.     Will  yon  come?" 

She  saw  I  wavered. 

"You  can  not  help  nursing  a  painful  curiosity 
with  regard  to  this  child — brought  to  you  muler 
circumstances  calculated  to  arouse  your  most 
painful  suspicions.  If  you  will  trust  yourself  to 
me  I  will  convey  you  to  a  house  in  the  country 
on  the  o])posite  side  of  London,  where  you  shall 
hear  the  boy's  own  mother  tell  you  her  story  antl 
his.  And  in  the  course  of  the  evening  I'll  bring 
you  back  to  'The  Cedars.'  " 

"  Am  I  to  listen  to  more  black  slanders  against 
my  dear  liushand  ?"  I  answered,  fiercely. 

"  Be  calm,  be  calm,  Mrs.  Gower,"  she  replied, 
her  composure  still  unruffled,  as  it  had  been  wiien  i 


she  rained  down  her  sarcasms  and  contempt 
upon  me.  "  In  spite  of  your  angry  feelings  to- 
ward me,  i/oii  know  that  you  may  trust  me.  My 
name  was  a  household  word  with  you  for  years 
ere  you  ever  rested  eye  on  me.  Trust  to  me — 
when  /  (jive  you  my  serious  assurance  that,  while 
you  remain  under  my  charge,  neither  your  cre- 
dulity nor  your  suspicion  shall  be  practiced  upon 
by  falsehood  of  any  kind.  Come  with  me  and 
speak  with  Arthur's  mother.  After  you  have 
heard  her  story  you  can  decide  whether  it  is  right 
for  you  to  receive  him  into  your  house." 

I  considered  for  a  minute,  trying  honestly  to 
balance  the  considerations  forbidding  me  to  ac- 
cept her  offer  against  the  considerations  urging 
me  to  avail  myself  of  it.  It  was  a  trying  crisis. 
If  I  consented,  my  conduct  might  seem  to  imj)ly 
distrust  of  my  husband.  If  I  declined  the  invi- 
tation, I  might  lose  an  opjiortunity  of  gaining 
information  that  would  be  useful  both  to  him  and 
me. 

"Miss  Temple,"  I  «aid,  bringing  my  inde- 
cision to  an  end,  "  I  will  accompany  you.  I 
will  join  you  in  a  minute,  equipped  for  a  drive 
in  your  carriage." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A   MEETING    OF    OLD    FRIENDS. 

Miss  Temple  had  not  to  wait  long  for  me. 

I  was  speedily  assisted  into  her  carriage,  and, 
taking  her  place  by  my  side,  she  ordered  her 
coachman  to  drive  as  quickly  as  possible,  since 
she  had  not  a  moment  to  spare.  Excited  and 
preoccupied  though  I  was,  I  kejit  my  ear  on  the 
alert  to  catch  her  directions  to  her  servants ;  but 
instead  of  inquiring  in  the  customary  manner 
whither  the}'  should  next  proceed,  the  footman 
shut  the  door  of  the  chariot  without  a  word,  and 
the  coachman  drove  off  at  a  ra])id  speed,  clearly 
in  obedience  to  orders  he  had  already  received. 

"To  what  quarter  or  suburb  of  the  town  are 
we  going,  IMiss  Temple  ?"  I  inquired,  as  the 
horses  bore  us  down  the  steepest  part  of  High- 
gate  Hill  at  a  swinging  trot. 

"Oh,  some  distance;  but  we  sha'n't  be  long 
on  the  road,"  answered  the  lady,  avoiding  the 
question.  "My  horses  are  good  ones.  We  will 
not  talk ;  we  have  each  of  us  enough  to  think 
about." 

That  was  true.  Desirous  as  I  was  to  ascer- 
tain the  route  we  were  taking,  I  soon  left  off 
watching  for  way-marks  on  the  road.  That  we 
entered  London  by  a  road  unknown  to  me,  that 
we  s]ie<i  swiftly  througli  a  western  quarter  of  the 
town,  that  we  emerged  from  the  clattered  jiave- 
ments  into  the  green  country,  that  we  drove  for 
a  ciinsiderable  distance  along  tlie  banks  of  the 
Thames — where  tlie  river  still  deserves  the  cpi- 
t])ct  of  "silver" — I  knew;  but  more  I  could  not 
have  stated,  when  the  carriage  dashed  through  a 
gate  with  a  lodge  on  either  side,  whirled  along 
a  sinuous  drive  under  the  branches  of  a  thick 
]ilantation,  and  then  suddenly  stopped  at  the 
])ostern  entrance  of  a  large  and  well-built  man- 
sion. 

"Here  we  arc  at  our  joifrney's  end,"  observed 
Miss  Teni])le,  speaking  for  tlic  first  time  since 
she  had  ])ercmpt<irily  .announced  her  inteinion 
not  to  converse  with  mo  during  tlie  drive. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


141 


By  the  sun  I  judged  that  it  wns  between,  six 
and  seven  o'clock  p. 31.  ;  but  iny  whole  day  had 
been  so  strangely  disoalered,  and  since  I  had 
been  in  Miss  Temple's  company  I  iiad  experi- 
enced so  mucli  intense  excitement,  I  could  not 
form  any  conjecture  as  to  the  length  of  time  con- 
sumed in  our  transit  from  "The  Cedars"  to  our 
destination.  Whether  the  time  so  employed  was 
half  an  hour,  or  an  hour,  or  two  hours,  or  three 
hours,  I  could  not  say.  I  could  have  given  a 
better  account  of  what'l  had  been  tliinking  about 
while,  with  a  sensation  of  flying  through  the  air, 
I  was  borne  from  the  green  lanes  of  Highgate 
into  spacious  squares  and  close  streets,  and  from 
spacious  squares  and  close  streets  into  green  lanes 
again.  The  series  of  "suggestions"  with  which 
Miss  Temple  had  brought  her  morning  call  to 
its  highest  pitch  of  painful  excitement  occupied 
a  principal  share  of  my  thoughts.  That  Julian 
had,  in  his  bitter  grief,  fallen  into  unworthy 
pleasure,  was  the  supposition  that  stung  me  most 
acutely  and  wounded  me  most  dcc|jly,  and  for 
that  very  reason  it  was  I'epcUed  with  the  most 
difficulty.  Time  after  time  I  rejected  it  as  im- 
true,  stiying  to  myself,  "It  is  false — altogether 
false;"  but  every  time  I  so  hurled  it  from  me  it 
presented  itself  again — appearing,  each  time  it 
did  so,  less  repulsive,  less  incredible,  more  ex- 
cusable, more  natural.  I  could  not  trace  each 
link  of  suspicion,  and  fear,  and  alarm,  and  hy- 
pothesis with  which  in  a  few  minutes  I  strung 
together  the  romances  of  many  distinct  lives — 
all  of  which  my  Julian — lofty,  earnest,  generous 
Julian — might  have  led.  But  this  I  know — as 
the  horses  galloped  in  the  sunshine  on  the  smooth 
road,  after  we  had  emerged,  from  the  town,  and 
as  the  calm,  lustrous  river  was  now  concealed 
from  my  observation  and  now  revealed  to  my 
sight,  I  mentally  formed  this  decision  more  than 
once  :  "If  Arthur  is  his  son,"  my  decision  ran, 
"I  will  say  to  Julian,  'Let  me  be  his  mother. 
Now  that  I  know  how  good  a  reason  you  have 
to  love  him  I  shall  never  again  be  jealous  of 
him,  but  will  love  him  dearly  as  my  own,  and 
will  rejoice  in  witnessing  your  pride  in  and  af- 
fection for  him.'  " 

At  Miss  Temple's  invitation  I  alighted  from 
the  chariot,  when,  entei'ing  the  mansion  by  the 
postern  door,  she  led  me  straight  through  the 
hall  .and  up  stairs  into  a  large  room,  fitted  up 
partly  as  a  library  and  partly  as  a  boudoir,  on 
the  floor  immediately  above  the  ground-floor. 
No  servant  had  met  us  in  the  interior  of  the 
house.  It  seemed  to  me  that  Miss  Temple  was 
in  her  own  dwelling,  and  yet  I  had  not  under- 
stood she  wished  to  take  me  there. 

"This  is  a  place,"  she  said,  answering  my 
look  of  surprise  and  inqairy,  "where  I  always 
have  a  room  ready  for  me,  so  that  I  can  use  it 
■whenever  I  wish  for  a  breatli  of  country  air.  Is 
not  this  a  splendid  view  ?" 

As  she  spoke  she  led  me  to  a  window  over- 
looking a  noble  prospect  of  that  rich  conjunc- 
tion of  woodland  and  farm  of  which  the  banks 
of  the  Tliames  are  formed.  The  river  ran  close 
to  the  house — washing,  indeed,  the  outward  roots 
of  one  of  the  skirting  plantations  that  surround- 
ed the  lawn. 

"Just  rest  your  eyes  for  a  minute  on  that  love- 
ly scene,  and  I  will  then  give  you  a  glimpse  of 
'an  interior,' "  observed  Miss  Temple,  going  to 
the  back  of  the  apartment  and  pulling  aside  a 


crimson  curtain,  which  had,  till  site  moved  it, 
concealed  a  door  from  my  observation.  I  was 
curious  to  see  what  she  was  about ;  but  I  did  not 
feel  justified  in  watching  her  operations.  So  I 
turneil  my  eyes  away,  and  once  more  surveyed 
the  magnificent  eliestnuts  and  copper  beeches  on 
the  lawn,  and  the  boats  gliding  silently  up  and 
down  the  bright,  clear  river.  I  might  have  stoud 
at  the  open  window  for  five  minutes,  it  might 
have  been  a  longer  time,  when  a  ring  at  tiie 
lodge  gate  attracted  my  attention,  causing  me  to 
take  my  eyes  oft'  the  water  and  look  in  the  oppo- 
site direction.  In  another  minnte  a  gentleman 
walked  \vith  a  quick,  firm  step  along  the  hard 
gravel  drive.  I  heard  the  step,  and  recognized 
it  several  seconds  before  the  trees  permitted  mo 
to  see  distinctly  the  person  to  whom  it  belonged. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  dearJNIrs.  Gower?" 
inquired  Miss  Temple,  running  across  the  room 
to  me,  as  I  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

Tlie  gentleman  was  now  in  full  sight,  walking 
in  the  middle  of  the  gravel  drive.' 

"See,  see!"  I  said,  clutching  hold  of  Miss 
Temple's  hand. 

' '  Exactly ;  you  know  your  own  husband  of 
course,"  she  answered,  composedly. 

"  How  comes  he  here  ?  why  comes  he  here  ?" 
I  gasped. 

"  He  is  a  frequent  visitor.  He  has  been  here 
six  times  within  the  last  six  days." 

"What  for?" 

"Never  mind  what  he  has  come  here  for  on 
former  days.  I'll  tell  you  what  his  business  here 
this  evening  is." 

"Quick — tell  me." 

' '  You  shall  see  for  yourself  Here,  come 
with  me.-" 

As  she  spoke  she  put  her  hands  upon  my 
shoulders,  and  conveyed  me  across  the  room  as 
if  I  had  been  a  rebellious  school  child.  I  did 
not  resist  her,  for  I  was  too  scared  to  have  pur- 
pose or  thought  of  my  own. 

"Here,  stand  there!"  she  said,  placing  me 
before  the  door  at  the  further  end  of  the  room, 
"and  tell  me  what  you  see." 

While  these  words  were  leaving  her  lips  she 
withdrew  a  silk  curtain  from  before  a  pane  of 
glass,  M'hich  was  let  into  the  wood-work  of  the 
door. 

"Look  through  that  pane  of  glass." 

I  obeyed. 

"You  see,"  whispered  Miss  Temple,  lowering 
her  voice  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  occupant  of  the 
next  room,  "you  see  a  room  similar  to  this,  but 
brighter,  and  more  luxuriously  furnished.  The 
pink  silk  blinds  are  drawn  to  keep  out  the  light 
of  the  setting  sun,  which  bears  down  on  the  oth- 
er side  of  the  house.  On  a  sofa,  placed  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  you  see  a  lady  lying,  her 
fixce  turned  away  from  j'Oii  and  fixed  upon  the 
door.  Mrs.  Gower,  that  lady  is  watching  the 
door  intently — she  is  listening  for  a  beloved  step 
on  the  staircase ;  it  seems  to  her  as  though  that 
door  would  never  open.  Mrs.  Gower,  that  lady 
is  Arthur's  mother.  You  know  whose  visit  she 
is  expecting.  Remain  where  you  are.  See  the 
scene  out  to  its  close." 

For  a  minute  she  left  me,  just  to  ring  a  bell 
on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Then  she  came 
back  to  me  again  and  put  her  arm  kindly  and 
in  sisterly  fashion  round  my  waist. 

I  still  continued  to  watch.    The  door,  to  which 


142 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


the  lady's  face  was  turned,  moved.  She  started 
up.  The  liandle  moved  round  and  stuck,  im- 
peded in  its  action  ai)i>arciitly  by  a  nervous 
handler.  The  wood-work  of  the  door  shook. 
In  another  instant  it  Hew  open,  and  my  liusband 
entered  the  room.  The  hidy,  with  a  scream  of 
agitation,  sprang  up  from  the  sofa,  bounded  to- 
ward him,  caught  botli  his  hands  in  hers,  and 
fell  upon  her  knees  at  his  feet,  saying,  "  Oh, 
Julian  —  dear,  dear,  noble,  generous,  forgiving 
Julian !  Pardon  me,  say  tliat  you  pardon  me — 
and  that  you  will  love  my  boy !" 

I  saw  Julian  raise  the  lady  from  her  abject  po- 
sition. I  saw  him  lift  her  in  his  arms,  and  seal 
his  ])ardon  with  a  kiss.  I  heard  him  say,  "Dar- 
ling, we  will  never  part  again.  Our  boy  shall 
be  our  chief  care.  By  our  love,  our  sorrows,  and 
our  separation,  I  will  hold  you  a  sacred  charge 
— dear  to  my  heart."  I  heard  him  give  utter- 
ance to  other  strong  assurances  of  love — and 
then  I  could  hear  no  more." 


A  mist  came  over  my  eyes,  and  I  fell  back 
into  Miss  Temple's  arms,  saying,  "Take  me 
away — 1  feel  very  ill."     . 

I  iieard  her  clear,  quiet  voice  say,  "Be  calm, 
be  calm !  Tell  me,  Mrs.  Gower,  do  you  believe 
in  your  husband  now  ?    Is  your  faith  unshaken  ?" 

I  remember  that  as  she  uttered  these  words 
she  gazed  at  me  with  an  expression  of  exultant 
trinm])h  in  her  face  which  I  could  not  interpret. 

"  lAIiss  Temple — Miss  Temijle,"  I  said,  beating 
my  hands  upon  my  heart — "Julian  is  unutter- 
ably— unalterably  good !" 

I  was  unaware  I  said  this.  Miss  Temple  told 
me  afterward  that  just  ere  I  fainted  and  fell 
back  unconscious  I  used  those  words.  And  now 
that  I  reflect  on  the  past,  it  is  an  inexpressible 
source  of  satisfaction  to  me  to  know  that  even 
in  my  agony  of  suspicion — when  I  was  still  un- 
able to  explain  the  scene  I  had  witnessed — my 
faith  in  my  dear  husband  enabled  me  to  cry  out, 
"  He  is  unutterably — unalterably  good  !" 


BOOK    VIII. 


PART  THE  THIRD  OF  A  WOMAN'S    STORY:— BEING  THE  NAR- 
RATIVE OF  OLIVE  BLAKE'S  ATONEMENT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    COUNCIL    OF    THREE. 

I  TOOK  a  trip  of  a  few  months  to  gain  a  per- 
fect restoration  of  my  health,  and  then  I  reso- 
lutely set  to  work  to  accomplish  the  business 
marked  out  for  me  in  life. 

The  more  I  thought  of  my  position  Mith  re- 
gard to  my  husband,  and  the  nature  of  his  con- 
duct toward  me,  the  more  convinced  I  was  that 
Etty  Tree  had  been  made  the  victim  of  a  wicked 
plot.  My  sense  of  my  own  injury,  without  (I  am 
thankful  to  say)  embittering  me,  sharpened  my 
perceptions,  and  made  me  look  at  life  in  a  more 
business-like  and  practical  manner  than  I  had 
ever  done — the  period  of  my  worldly  married 
life  being  even  included  in  the  retrospect.  It 
was  the  first  time  in  all  my  existence  tliat  I  had 
consciously  experienced  a  wrong.  My  feelings 
of  justice,  always  acute  in  a  woman,  had  in  tha 
confined  circle  of  my  personal  aft'airs  never  be- 
fore been  shocked.  I  had  therefore  witli  all  my 
precocity  of  intelligence,  and  all  my  knowledge 
of  the  ways  and  practices  of  unscrupulous  men, 
taken  the  world  as  it  came,  in  trust  and  without 
suspicion.  Now,  however,  tliat  a  terrilile  blow 
had  roused  me  from  my  blind  confidence,  I  saw 
my  jiast  history  with  unsealed  eyes. 

I  knew  at  length  that  Lord  Byfield  was  a 
bad  and  heartless  man.  This  knowledge  was 
the  key  by  which  I  set  to  work  to  read  the  rid- 
dle of  his  life.  It  was  the  light  by  which  I  now 
prejjared  to  examine  bis  gravest,  and  at  the  same 
time  his  apjiarently  nniiiijiortant  acts.  It  made 
me  j)rejudge  the  cause  in  which  I  was  interested, 
and  inspiring  me  with  confidence  in  his  guilt 
gave  me  heart  to  collect  evidence,  search  for 
motives,  and  devise  theories  by  which  the  prob- 
lem of  his  dark  courses  might  be  solved — in  the 


same  way  that  a  professional  advocate   tracks 
crime  to  its  lurking-place. 

Knowing  Lord  Byfield  to  be  utterly  bad,  it 
was  not  difficult  for  me  to  point  to  a  motive  suf- 
ficient to  account  for  his  committing  the  crime 
with  which  he  stood  charged  in  the  court  of  my 
secret  consciousness.  The  very  large  fortune  he 
acquired  by  marrying  me  was  a  sufficient  reason 
for  his  marrying  me  without  love.  As  I  told  my 
readers  at  the  outset,  ours  was  a  inariage  de  con- 
venance  ;  I  out  of  a  sentiment  of  filial  duty  offer- 
ing (in  the  absence  of  any  grave  objections  to 
the  step)  to  render  him  the  services  of  wifely 
duty,  and  lie  accepting  my  wealth  as  a  consider- 
ation why  he  should  confer  upon  me  social  dis- 
tinction by  making  me  his  wife.  The  terms  of 
my  dear  father's  will  had  been  carefully  ar- 
ranged to  i)rotect  me  from  the  misery  of  being 
united  to  a  husband  either  unworthy  of  me  or 
distasteful  to  me.  They  had  expressly  directed 
that  I  should  not  give  my  final  decision  whether 
I  would  become  the  bride  of  Arthur  Petersham 
until  the  completion  of  my  twentj'-fifth  year, 
when  my  future  husband  would  have  attained 
the  age  of  forty.  If  he  wished  to  possess  the 
wealth  of  Blake  as  well  as  Petersham,  he  was 
required  to  wait  till  he  had  attained  middle  life 
ere  he  should  enter  upon  marriage.  Of  course 
he,  a  wicked  man  (as  I  knew  him  to  be),  had  ' 
not  passed  the  period  between  youth  and  forty 
years  in  purity.  More  than  one  poor  girl  had 
doubtless  rued  his  corrupting  passion.  At  the 
best,  he  had  only  lived  according  to  the  ways  of 
men  of  fashion,  a  generation  and  more  since. 
But  by  the  terms  of  my  father's  will,  if  any  dis- 
tinct act  of  immorality  could  be  proved  against 
him,  I  was  at  liberty  on  comjdeting  my  twenty- 
fifth  year  to  reject  him,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
enter  on  possession  of  the  £300,000  which  was 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


148 


to  lie  his  in  case  of  our  marriage.  It  was  tliere- 
fV)r;-  incumbent  on  him,  if  he  would  win  all  the 
stakes  on  the  table  at  whicii  he  was  playing,  to 
maintain  an  unassailable  reputation.  He  could 
not,  therefore,  afford  to  imitate  the  wicked  of 
his  own  rank  in  running  a  career  of  open  and 
avowed  proHigacy.  An  eschindre  might  cost 
him  a  third  of  a  million  of  money.  The  conse- 
quences of  this  necessity  would  be  (and,  as  I  aft- 
erward discovered,  they  were)  most  injurious  to 
his  character.  Without  sufficient  moral  strength 
to  restrain  himself  from  sinful  gratiticalion,  he 
would  indulge  his  vicious  propensities  with  every 
precaution  against  discovery.  He  would  contract 
a  habit  of  sinning  secretly.  He  would  not  only 
be  a  cliild  of  evil,  but  his  evil  would  be  done 
darkly,  in  tortuous  and  hidden  ways.  He  would 
by  his  evil  desires  and  his  cupidity  be  educated 
to  fraud.  It  was  thus  I  reasoned,  and  my  rea- 
soning led  me  to  see  his  capability  of  the  crime 
with  which  he  was  charged,  and  also  to  discern 
his  motive  for  committing  it. 

He  had  doubtless  (I  argued  to  rnVself)  been 
enamored  of  Etty  Tree's  surpassing  beauty  at 
Laughton,  and  had  determined  to  possess  him- 
self of  it.  He  had  possibly  first  felt  his  way  to 
see  if  he  could  not  accomplish  his  purpose  with- 
out indulging  the  poor  girl  with  a  form  of  mar- 
riage ;  but  finding  that  impracticable,  he  had 
consented  to  make  her  his  wife.  Giddy  at  the 
prospect  of  being  elevated  to  share  his  fortune, 
the  simple  creature  had  not  only  consented  to  a 
secret  marriage,  but  had  agreed  to  leave  Laugh- 
ton  under  circumstances  that  would  lead  the  in- 
habitants of  the  town  to  the  conclusion  that  she 
had  fled,  not  with  her  betrayer,  hut  with  his  friend, 
JIajor  Watchit.  Whenever  I  came  to  this  point 
of  my  hypothetical  arguments  I  always  experi- 
enced a  sense  of  poignant  regret  that  Sir  George 
Watchit  was  no  longer  alive.  It  was  clear  that 
he  liad  been  Lord  Byfield's  accomplice  in  an  in- 
famous crime.  Etty  Tree  had  herself  told  me 
that  she  left  Laughton  with  him  (Mr.  Petersham 
following  her  up  to  London),  and  that  she  also 
left  the  church  in  which  they  were  married,  and 
traveled  to  Monaco  with  him  (Mr.  Petersham 
again  traveling  by  a  ditterent  route,  and  meet- 
ing them  in  the  principality).  What  had  been 
Sir  George  Watchit's  early  history  ?  I  knew  but 
little  of  it.  He  had  been  at  Eton  with  Lord 
Byfield,  and  since  that  time  they  had,  up  till 
Sir  George's  death,  been  close  and  most  intimate 
friends.  What  had  been  the  bond  between  them  ? 
It  was  not  equality  of  fortune ;  for  while  Lord 
Byfield  was  at  the  outset  of  life  the  heir-appar- 
ent to  prodigious  wealth.  Sir  George  Watchit  had 
commenced  his  career  a  soldier  of  fortune !  Then 
I  recalled  all  the  substantial  benefits  that  had 
flowed  to  Sir  George  Watchit  through  his  con- 
nection with  my  husband  ;  his  ra]iid  promotion 
4n  India  (for  he  entered  the  Company's  service 
at  an  unusually  late  period  of  life) ;  the  ease  with 
which  he  obtained  leave  of  absence  from  the 
East  to  enjoy  himself  in  Europe ;  and,  finally, 
his  last  advancement  to  high  command,  ob- 
tained for  him  (as  Lord  Byfield  had  himself  told 
me)  by  the  late  IMr.  Petersham's  influence  ex- 
ercised upon  his  brother  Directors.  These,  then 
(said  I  to  myself),  were  some  of  the  accom- 
plice's rewards. 

I  had  only  seen  Sir  George  Watchit  a  few 
times  in  all  my  life,  on  which  occasions  I  had 


been  j)owerfully  imjiresscd  by  his  silent  force  of 
character,  and  his  singular,  I  might  even  say  his 
comical,  taciturnity.  He  was  an  energetic  and 
capable  soldier  (//iia^  he  had,  ere  his  death,  shown 
the  world) ;  and,  fi'om  the  slight  recollection  I 
had  of  him,  I  was  quite  able  to  believe  him  un- 
scrupulous enough  to  have  acted  (for  a  sulficient 
consideration)  as  Lord  Byfiokl's  tool  in  works 
of  secret  crime.  I  knew  well  that,  were  he  alive, 
he  would  be  little  likely  to  reveal  to  me  the  facts 
which  I  wished  to  discover.  Base  honor  to  a 
base  friend,  and,  above  all  other  considerations, 
concern  for  his  own  reputation,  as  well  as  for 
his  security  from  legal  punishment,  would  seal 
his  lijjs.  Still  I  could  not  endure  the  thought 
that  he  had  perished  without  making  any  sign. 
There  was  no  longer  a  chance  of  extracting  evi- 
dence from  his  fear,  his  penitence,  his  cupidity, 
or  his  singular  ])ersonal  appearance.  He  had 
gone  from  the  reach  of  earthly  judgment. 

The  first  work  I  proposed  to  myself  was  to  dis- 
cover not  only  Etty  Tree,  but  also  her  sister. 
The  latter  might  tell  me  something  by  which  I 
could  the  better  pursue  my  search  after  the  for- 
mer. «> 

Lord  Byfield  had  assured  me  that  he  was  ig- 
norant of  Etty  Tree's  place  of  abode ;  but  this 
statement  (although  credited  by  me  at  the  time 
it  was  made)  I  now  of  course  regarded  as  false. 
As  it  was  to  his  interest  to  conceal  the  girl,  and 
to  keep  the  place  of  her  concealment  known  only 
to  himself,  he  of  course  would  not  have  told  me 
her  abode,  since  I  of  all  people  was  the  one  in- 
dividual from  whom  he  was  most  desirous  of 
keeping  her.  I  knew  by  his  own  admission  that 
lie  had  on  one  occasion  given  her  to  a  physician 
to  take  charge  of  her  as  a  person  of  disordered 
intellect.  He  had  doubtless  again  consigned  her 
to  medical  care  as  a  lunatic.  To  any  person  Ics.s 
intimately  acquainted  with  Lord  Byfield  than  I 
was  the  evidence  which  he  could  offer  of  her  in- 
sanity was  conclusive.  She  persisted  in  calling 
herself  his  wife,  and  had  positively  entered  his 
residence  and  alarmed  me  (the  woman  he  had 
wedded  in  the  o]ien  light  of  day,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  fashionable  world)  with  a  statement 
that  he  had  married  her  on  a  particular  day  in 
the  parish  church  of  a  London  parish,  whereas 
the  carefully  kept  registers  of  that  church  gave 
her  words  a  complete  refutation.  What  physi- 
cian would  hesitate  to  give  his  certificate  that  a 
young  woman  so  conducting  herself  was  dement- 
ed ?  Therefore,  still  reasoning  with  a  defect  in 
my  chain  of  evidence,  I  was  as  confident  that 
Lord  Byfield  had  immured  her  in  an  asylum,  as 
I  was  confident  that  he  had  married  her  under 
circumstances  which  rendered  it  highly  improb- 
able that  I  should  ever  be  able  to  trace  the  deed 
home  to  him. 

Where  was  Etty  Tree  ? 

This  was  the  question  that  I,  and  Dr.  Clargcs, 
and  my  solicitor,  Mr.  Castleton,  were  bent  upon 
answering. 

My  readers  have  already  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Dr.  Charges.  Let  me  now  introduce 
them  to  Mr.  Castleton.  He  is  an  eminent  mem- 
ber of  his  branch  of  the  legal  profession,  and. 
like  Dr.  Clargcs,  was  an  intimate  and  valued 
friend  of  my  dear  fiither.  He  it  was  who  super- 
intended the  construction  of  that  last  will  and 
testament,  which  led  to  my  unfortunate  mar- 
riage ;  and  ever  since  my  dear  father's  death  he 


144 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


has  given  my  nflTuirs  liis  constant  attention.  A 
learned  ancfiiighly  enltivated  man,  Mr.  Castie- 
ton  unites  to  the  caution,  aceiirncy,  foresislit, 
and  secret  vigilance  of  the  beau-ideal  of  a  solicit- 
or, the  graces  of  an  accomjilislicd  and  most  hon- 
orable gentleman.  He  is  not  only  my  business 
adviser,  but  my  good  friend.  Let  my  readers 
now  imagine  ]\Ir.  Castleton  as  of  sixty  years  of 
age,  but  with  the  appearance  of  not  having  seen 
more  than  forty  summers ;  let  them  imagine  him 
of  the  middle  height,  with  light-brown  hair  and 
whiskers,  and  a  singularly  benevolent  and  court- 
eous countenance,  and  they  will  have  a  suffi- 
cicnily  comjilete  and  accurate  notion  of  my  le- 
gal coadjutor  in  tiie  work  that  lay  before  me. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  Mr.  Castleton,  when, 
in  Dr.  Clarges's  presence,  I  had  laid  my  case  be- 
fore him,  "we  must  proceed  with  the  utmost  se- 
crecy ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  we  must  not  be 
disheartened  if  we  have  to  labor  for  years  with- 
out achieving  our  object." 

"Why  such  a  need  for  secrecy?"  asked  the 
doctor. 

"  Because,"  replied  the  lawyer,  "  if  we  do  not 
work  quietly,  we  draw  upon  ourselves  the  atten- 
tion of  Lord  Byfield.  Our  assumption  (favored, 
I  confess,  bij  some,  but  far  from  supported  bi/  all 
the  evidence  I  could  desire)  is  that  Lord  Byfield 
has  been  guilty  of  at  least  one  grave  offense 
against  the  laws  of  his  coTTntry.  We  assume  also 
that  the  young  woman  we  wish  to  discover  has 
been  consigned  by  him  to  a  lunatic  asylum,  or 
some  other  place  of  security.  Now,  if  our  as- 
sumptions are  correct,  should  Lord  Byfield  learn 
that  we  are  endeavoring  to  obtain  access  to  the 
young  woman,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  he 
would  do  his  utmost  to  defeat  our  purpose,  and 
secure  himself  from  every  chance  of  detec- 
tion." 

"But,  surely,"  I  said,  "Mr.  Castleton,  it 
ought  to  be  easy  for  us  to  discover  if  a  particular 
person  is  confined  in  any  public  asylum,  or  in 
any  private  house  registered  for  the  reception  of 
the  insane.  The  houses  themselves  any  how  are 
known." 

"True,  and  under  ordinary  circumstances," 
returned  the  lawyer,  "it  would  be  comparatively 
easy  to  discover  whether  a  particular  person  was 
confined  in  any  one  of  them,  if  there  were  no 
necessity  for  avoiding  observation  in  the  prose- 
cution of  search.  For  instance,  we  could  go  from 
one  house  to  another,  and  with  the  assistance  of 
a  Commissioner  of  Lunacy  search  tliroughout 
all  the  lunatic  asylums  in  the  land  for  this 
missing  girl.  But  to  do  so  would  be  simjily  to 
say  to  Lord  Byfield,  '  My  lord,  we  are  bent  upon 
proving  that  you  are  guilty  of  bigamy.'  You 
must  remember  that  we  are  dealing  with  a  very 
powerful  personage,  a  man  ])ossessed  of  means 
to  influence  those  wlimn  you  might  deem  placed 
above  the  reach  of  corruption.  We  must  he 
very  cautious.  At  present  we  may  not  let  a 
single  person  into  our  counsel  besides  ourselves." 

"But  still,  Castleton,"  observed  the  doctor, 
jiettishly,  "it  remains  for  you  to  ehnlk  out  soiiie 
line  of  action.  We  can't  sit  still.  It  is  all  well 
to  saj'  what  we  mayn't  do.  Can't  you  tell  us 
what  we  viajj  do  ?" 

Mr.  Castleton  was  silent  for  a  couple  of  min- 
utes, during  which  time  he  tore  a  sheet  of  note- 
pajier  in  minute  i)ieces,  and  scattered  them  on 
the  floor  of  my  library — not  altogether  to  my 


satisfaction,  for  I  have  always  been  known  as  a  ! 
particularly  neat  person. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  we  must  do,"  said  tlie  law- 
yer, after  a  pause. 

""Good — now  for  it,"  said  the  doctor. 
"We  must  commence,  and  steadily  carry  out 
by  ourselves,  a  search  of  the  following  nature, 
without  the  assistance  of  agents  of  any  kind. 
Of  coiu'se  our  first  object  is  to  ascertain  if  the 
young  woman  be  in  a  mad-house.  Now  it  is 
easy  to  get  a  list  of  all  the  asylums  in  the  king- 
dom. I'll  send  you  such  a  list,  doctor,  this  very 
night ;  and  I'll  send  you  one  also.  Lady  By — (I 
beg  your  pardon,  I  forgot) — I'll  send  you  one 
also.  Miss  Blake.  Now,  into  several  of  the  most 
expensive  )>rivate  asylums,  where  a  person  of 
Lord  Byfield's  rank  would  be  most  likely  to  con- 
fine such  a  young  woman  as  Miss  Tree  (for  con- 
siderations of  rank,  Miss  Blake,  are  regarded 
even  by  the  patrons  of  mad-houses),  I  oan  obtain 
admission.  I  have  frequently  to  send  a  patient 
to  one  or  the  other  of  them.  Possibly  I  have  at 
the  present  time  persons  in  whom  I  am  ])rofes- 
sionally  interested  detained  in  some  of  them. 
Any  how,  I  can  get  admission  to  them." 

"Good,"  said  Dr.  Clarges,  rubbing  his  hands 
M'ith  satisfaction;  "now  I  see  how  I  can  be  of 
some  use  in  the  hunt." 

"  You,  doctor," continued  Mr.  Castleton,  "can 
obtain  admission  to  manj'  more.  Your  profes- 
sional reputation  will  not  only  introduce  you  to 
their  keepers,  but  will  secure  you  a  courteous  re- 
ception from  them.  Now  you  and^  I,  doctor, 
must  get  into  as  many  of  these  prisons  as  we 
can,  and,  by  the  exercise  of  a  little  pardonable 
artifice,  obtain  an  inspection  of  the  lists  of  in- 
mates without  letting  our  object  ti'anspire." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  more  gravely,  "  it  will 
be  a  tiresome  task." 

"  No  doubt  about  that,"  responded  Mr.  Cnstle- 
ton,  quietly.  "We  shall  have  to  take  mnny  long 
journeys  into  the  difterent  counties  of  England, 
as  well  as  spend  many  a  day  in  visiting  the  met- 
ropolitan asylums,  ere  we  shall  be  able  to  say 
that  we  have  done  all  that  lies  in  our  power  in 
this  line  of  inquiry ;  and  perhaps,  after  all,  it  may 
turn  out  that  we  shall  find  our  labors  have  been 
misdirected." 

"Oh,  you  good,  dear  men!""  I  exclaimed, 
"  don't  fear  the  labor.  Look  at  the  end.  What 
is  the  toil  compared  with  that?''' 

"There  are  more  diflioultics  in  our  way,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Castleton,  "than  even  you  can  see. 
Miss  Blake." 

"What  are  they?  tell  me  the  worst." 
"The  young  woman  may  be  confined  in  an 
asylum — but  under  a  wrong  name." 

'•Good  Heavens  !"  Isaid,  "  what  a  suggestion ! 
How  should  we  discover  her  then?" 

"Humph!"  replied  the  lawyer.  "Personal 
insjiection.  We  shall  have  to  disguise  you,  and 
take  you  about  with  us ;  for  you  have  seen  the 
girl." 

"I  should  remember  her  any  where,"  I  an- 
swered, warmly. 

"  Slie  may,"  continued  Mr.  Castleton,  "he  in 
confiucmont,  and  under  medical  care  as  a  luna- 
tic ;  but  not  in  a  house  registered  for  the  recep- 
tion of  the  insane." 
"I\Iny  she?" 

"Lord  Byfield,"  quietly  went  on  my  terrible 
solicitor,  "in  such  a  matter  would  regard  money 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


U5 


ns  ail  affair  of  no  consiik'raiiuii.  Ho  may  \)os- 
sibly  have  n  physician  in  liis  jiay  to  whom  he 
gives  £2()()()  a  year  for  kenpini:;  charge  of  this 
young  person,  in  liis  own  private  residence." 

"Oil,  Mr.  Castletonl"'  I  cxchiiined,  "how 
should  we  discover  her  in  such  a  case  ?  And  it 
is  exactly  what  Lord  Bytield  actually  did  witli 
that  physician  at  Nice." 

"Well,  well,"  returned  Mr.  Castleton,  smil- 
ing, "don't  b3  alarmed.  We  must  hope  for  the 
best,  but  be  prepared  for  the  worst.  And  to 
console  you,  1  may  say  that  I  hardly  think  Lord 
Byfield  would  adopt  such  a  plan  in  this  country. 
It  would  be  attended  with  too  much  hazard,  and 
rouse  sus])icion  of  him — at  least  in  the  mind  of 
one  individual." 

"Castleton,"'  said  ]^r.  Clarges,  "come  and 
talk  this  matter  over  with  nn  to-night,  and  then 
we'll  settle  how  we  must  proceed  to  action.  I 
must  now  be  oft"  to  see  my  patients.  Good- 
morning,  Olive.     God  help  you,  dear !"' 

iSIr.  Castleton  also  wished  me  a  valedictory 
pood-morning;  but  ere  he  took  his  departure  he 
a  IJed — "and  besides  entering  on  this  long,  tedi- 
ous search,  Miss  Blake,  I  will  forthwith  institute 
inquiries  after  the  young  person's  sister,  ^Miss 
Tabitha  Tree." 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  Mr.  Castleton  en- 
tertained an  angry  feeling,  a  sort  of  sub-resent- 
ment, toward  the  poor  girl  in  whom  I  had  so 
lively  an  interest.  It  was  a  long  time  ere  he 
ceased  to  speak  of  her  habitually  as  "the  young 
person,"  or  "the  young  \\oman."  But  the  time 
came  when  he  altered  his  opinion  of  her. 


CHAPTER  II. 


A     GOOD     OMEN. 


For  many  months  (they  seemed  to  me  very 
long  months)  I  had  to  wait  without  advancing 
a  single  step  in  the  journey  bjfore  me.  Dr. 
Charges  and  Mr.  Castleton  were  too  much  occu- 
pied with  urgent  professional  affairs  to  be  able 
to  visit  me  frequently  ;  but  whenever  they  came 
to  Fulham  (where,  with  Aunt  Wilby  for  a  com- 
panion, I  resumed  the  life  of  my  most  quiet  days 
previous  to  my  marriage),  they  assured  me  that 
they  were  devoting  all  their  leisure  moments  to 
I  my  service. 

"You  were  patient,  Olive,"  the  doctor  said  to 
'  me  frequently,   "under  heavy  afflictions.      You 
must  now  bear  patiently  the  irksomeness  of  de- 
lay." 
I        "I  will,  dear  doctor,"  I  answered  ;  "but  every 
I  day  I  learn  how  much  harder  it  is  tf)  licar  a  com- 
i  parativcly  light  trial  with  equanimity  than  it  is 
to  endure  a  graver  evil  with  fortitude^' 

At  the  expiration  of  five  months,  however, 
Mr.  Castleton  made  his  appearance  at  Fulham 
with  such  an  expression  of  serene  satisfacti(jn  in 
his  countenance  that  my  first  words  to  him 
were,  "You  bring  sunshine  with  you,  Mr.  Cas- 
tleton. Good  news  is  written  in  your  face,  but 
I  can  not  read  it ;  you  must  tell  me." 

"  Don't  raise  your  hopes  ;  for  if  you  do,  I  shall 
have  to  begin  by  throwing  cold  water  upon  them," 
rejilied  my  solicitor.  "  Lady  clients  are  most 
agreeable  to  a  man  of  business  as  a  change. 
Their  gratitude  is  quite  refreshing  to  lawyers, 
who  are  too  much  in  the  habit  of  regarding  their 
K 


avocations  solely  with  a  view  to  profit.  But  they 
;  are  so  oversanguine  that  they  are  conlinualiy 
'  subjecting  themselves  to  unnecessary  disa])point- 
I  inent,  and,  as  a  consc(piencc,  subjecting  their 
professional  agents  to  a  certain  amount  of  mor- 
t  tification — so  don't  let  your  hopeful  imagination 
run  away  with  you."' 

"  1  will  not.     But  what  is  the  intelligence?" 

"To  begin — I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  get 
a  trace  of  '  the  young  person.' " 

"Well?"  I  put  in,  as  my  heart  sunk. 

"But  I  have  discovered  her  sister." 

"Indeed — where  is  she?" 

"I  have  already,"  continued  Mr.  Castleton, 
telling  his  story  in  his  own  way,  "  made  several 
inquiries  about  her,  ami  they  have  resulted  in 
my  entertaining  a  very  favorable  opinion  of  her. 
I  should  say  that  Miss  Tabitha  Tree  is  a  lady  de- 
serving our  deepest  commiserati^jji ;  that  she  is 
a  truly  excellent  woman." 

Mr.  Castleton  paused.  If  he  had  a  fault  it 
was  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  playing  with  the 
feelings  of  others,  when  he  was  about  to  make 
an  important  communication. 

"  Since  we  first  discussed  this  business  I  have 
made  a  visit  to  Langhton,  the  town  where  'the 
young  person'  and  her  sister  kept  a  school — and 
to  Farnham  Cobb,  a  secluded  parish,  in  which 
they  were  brought  up  by  their  grandfather,  the 
vicar  of  the  parish.  I  there  made  some  import- 
ant discoveries  relative  to  Miss  Tabitha  Tree. 
The  principal  solicitor  of  Langhton,  who  is  the 
steward  of  the  important  ])ro)  erty  known  as  the 
Langhton  Abbey  estate,  was  fortunately  not  un- 
known to  me.  Indeed,  I  may  say  that  we  have  for 
many  years  been  connected  in  business  When 
I  was  a  youiiffman,  more  in  want  of  clients  than 
I  am  at  i)re3ent,  I  carried  on  an  agency  "business ; 
that  is  to  say  (for  the  term  needs  to  be  explained 
to  you),  I  transacted  for  country  solicitors  busi- 
ness to  which  they  could  not  attend  without  living 
in  town.  Agency  business  to  a  London  solicitor 
means  business  of  which  he  undertakes  all  the 
responsibility,  and  nearly  all  the  labor,  and  for 
which  he  obtains  only  half  the  fees  legally  due 
for  the  work  done.  Mr.  Gurley  was  one  of  my 
agency  clients.  On  achieving  success  in  my  pro- 
fession I  relinqui'shed  agency  work,  retaining, 
however,  the  business  of  those  of  my  jirovincial 
clients  who  had  shown  me  consideration  and  lib- 
erality, and  who  expressed-  a  decided  wish  to  re- 
tain my  services.  Among  my  old  agency  clients 
Mr.  Gurley  is  one.  JMy  visit  to  Langhton  there- 
fore took  me  directly  to  him.  I  knew  him  well 
(as  young  men,  we  were  articled  jnqiils  at  the 
same  oflice).  However,  I  did  not  think  it  right 
to  let  him  altogether  into  my  confidence.  I  told 
him  I  was  anxious  to  inform  myself  of  all  par- 
ticulars relative  to  the  history  of  Miss  Tabitha 
Tree  and  her  sister,  more  csj)ecially  of  all  par- 
ticulars relative  to  the  departure  of  the  latter 
from  Laughton.  His  story,  of  course,  w^as  that 
'  the  young  woman'  had  left  Laughton  under 
]iainful  and  disgraceful  circumstances  with  Ma- 
jor (afterward  Sir  George)  Watchit.  He  de- 
scribed her  as  singularly  beautiful,  but  jietted  and 
spoiled  by  overindulgence  in  childhood,  and  by 
the  attentions  showered  ujion  her  by  the  Laughton 
gentility.  Till  her  scandalous  flight  from  Laugh- 
ton '  Cottage'  Mr.  Gurley  had  deemed  her  a 
girl  naturally  amiable,  and  devoid  of  wicked  pro- 
pensities, just  as  he  also  deemed  her  devoid  of 


146 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


the  hish  piinciplc  and  rare  unselfishness  of  her 
elder  sister.  Lady  Caroline  Petersham's  notiec- 
of  this  unso]ihisticated  {j;irl  (in  Mr.  Gurley's  opin- 
ion) turned  her  head,  and  was  a  chief  cause  of 
her  ruin.  Of  the  elder  Miss  Tree  Mr.  Gurley 
spoke  in  very  different  terms.  '  Many  peoi)le 
called  her  ])lain,'  he  said,  'hut  she  never  ap- 
])cared  jilain  either  to  me  or  my  wife.  No  coni- 
jictent  observer  could  call  her  an  ordinary-look- 
iu}^  woman,  for  extraordinary  goodness  was  ex- 
jjressed  by  every  line  of  her  face.  But  you  shall 
hear  what  my  wife  says  about  her.'  I  dined  that 
day  with  Mr.  Gurley,  and  after  dinner  he  told 
his  wife  that  I  was  anxious  to  gain  information 
about  Miss  Tree,  and  especially  to  hear  her  ojiin- 
ion  of  her.  '  Then,  Sir,'  cried  the  honest  lady, 
flushing  up  with  generous  excitement,  '  let  me 
tell  you,  that  if  there  is  an  angel  on  earth  it  is 
little  Tibby  Tree. '  On  my  pressing  the  kind  lady 
to  give  me  some  reasons  for  her  high  opinion  of 
this  Miss  Tree,  she  answered  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  much  emotion,  '  Sir,  I  know  much 
about  Tibby  Tree  that  I  could  not  tell  you,  even 
if  you  were  my  most  intimate  friend,  instead  of 
being  almost  a  stranger  to  me.  But  this  I  can 
say :  she  is  the  most  unselfish  woman  I  have  ever 
known  in  the  whole  course  of  my  days ;  and  I 
know  that  from  the  day  she  came  to  Laughton 
till  the  day  she  left  it  in  sorrow  {not  disgrace, 
Sir — shame,  real  shame,  has  nothing  to  do  with 
her  !)  the  one  chief  thought  of  her  heart  was  to 
work  the  happiness  of  that  heartless,  vain,  little 
minx  of  a  sister  who  plunged  her  in  misery  !'  " 

"  Go  on,  Mr.  Castleton,"  I  said,  so  interested 
in  the  account  that  I  had  ceased  to  be  impatient 
for  its  termination. 

Mr.  Castleton  went  on.  A  poet  could  not 
have  drawn  a  more  beautiful  picture  of  all  he 
had  learned  to  Tibby  Tree's  advantage.  Pie  gave 
me  the  minutest  i>articulars  of  his  trip  into  "  the 
corn  country."  The  care  and  ingenuity  with 
which  he  had  carried  on  his  investigations  were 
absolutely  wonderful.  From  the  gossip  of  the 
villagers,  and  the  admissions  of  Mr.  Gurley,  lie 
had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  Tibby  Tree 
had  conceived  a  pure  and  lofty  love  for  Julian 
Gower,  who,  unconscious  of  the  treasure  he  had 
won,  centred  his  affections  on  the  pretty  face 
of  her  sister.  He  found  out  that  the  Gurleys 
maintained  an  epistolary  correspondence  with  this 
excellent  woman ;  but  they  were  cither  ignorant 
of  her  place  of  abode,  or  steadily  refused  to  im- 
part their  knowledge  of  it  to  him. 

"  I  impressed  on  Gurley,"  said  Mr.  Castleton, 
bringing  the  first  part  of  his  communications  to 
a  conclusion,  "my  anxiety  that  my  name  should 
'  be  kept  a  profound  secret  to  any  curious  inhab- 
itants of  Laughton,  who  might  wish  to  know  who 
the  stranger  was  who  had  been  over  to  Farnham 
Cobb,  gossiping  to  the  villagers  about  the  late 
vicar's  grand-daughters.  I  told  him  frankly  that 
it  was  not  in  my  power  to  reveal  to  him  at  pres- 
ent my  reason  for  wanting  to  trace  out  the  two 
sisters  ;  and  he,  as  a  sound  business  man,  a])pre- 
__  ciatcd  my  caution  and  secrecy.  On  ]diii  1  can 
rely ;  and  I  am  quite  confident  that  no  one  in 
'  the  corn  country'  will  sus])ect  that  the  excur- 
sionist who  sought  news  of  Tabitha  and  Annette 
Tree  in  the  haunts  of  their  childhood  was  a 
London  solicitor." 

"Well,  now,  do  go  on,"  I  cried,  getting  im- 
patient again. 


Mr.  Castleton  paused,  refreshed  himself  with 
a  glass  of  water,  and  then  recommenced:  "I  re- 
turned three  months  since  from  '  the  corn  coun- 
try' more  anxious  than  ever  to  discover  '  the 
young  person's'  sister.  I  caused  a  trusty  agent 
of  mine  to  search  every  directory  in  the  kingdom 
for  her  name.  I  inquired  of  all  the  principal 
haberdashers,  milliners,  and  shirt-makers  in  Lon- 
don, if  they  had  ever  given  work  to  a  person  of 
her  name.  It  would  weaiy  you  if  I  enumerated 
all  the  efforts  I  made  unavailingly  to  unearth 
her.  Of  course  I  did  not  advertise  for  her.  Such 
a  step  might  have  attracted  Lord  Byfield's  atten- 
tion, and  made  him  suspect  that  the  persons  anx- 
ious to  discover  Tabitha  Tree  were  really  search- 
ing for  her  sister." 

"  I'ut  how  did  you  discover  her  at  last  ?" 

"  Bjj  pure  accident.''' 

"How?" 

"By  pure  accident.  A  fortnight  since  a  cler- 
gyman called  at  my  office  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
and  sent  up  his  card.  I  was  busy,  but  still  did 
not  like  to  refuse  a  clergyman,  who  had  assured 
one  of  my  clerks  that  he  wanted  to  see  me  on 
urgent  business.  So  the  caller  was  admitted. 
He  was  a  well-dressed,  personable  man.  '  A  new 
client,'  thought  I.  But  not  a  bit  of  it.  He  sat 
down  on  my  own  peculiar  chair,  as  if  the  room 
belonged  to  him,  and  taking  a  packet  of  pro- 
s])ectuses  from  his  pocket,  coolly  informed  me 
that  he  wanted  me  to  subscribe  to  the  '  Hospital 
for  Sick  Children  in  Maixhioncss  Street.'  (That's 
the  way  in  which  the  enthusiastic  promoters  of 
Charitable  Institutions  tout  for  them  nowadays.) 
'Sir, 'I  said,  rudely  enough,  immediately!  learned 
his  business,  'what  charity  I  do  in  this  world  I 
do  myself,  and  without  the  aid  of  any  of  the  mush- 
room hosjiitals  that  infest  the  streets  of  London, 
and  absorb  the  funds  of  the  benevolent,  without 
doing  any  a])i)reciable  good  to  the  poor.  I  am  , 
a  subscriber  already  to  two  large  hospitals,  with 
medical  schools  attached  to  them,  and  I  must 
decline  throwing  away  £5  on  a  trumpery  infirm- 
ary, got  up  ivj  all  probability  to  bring  an  obscure 
physician  or  two  into  public  notice.  I  am  very 
busy.  My  time  is  very  valuable ;  and  therefore 
I  must  beg  you  to  say  "good-by"  to  me  instant- 
ly.' Most  men  would  have  been  abashed  by  this 
sjjeech.  But  far  from  being  put  out  of  counte- 
nance, the  reverend  gentleman  smiled  at  me, 
oi)ened  my  own  case  of  note-pa]ier,  and  taking 
from  it  a  sheet  of  paper  said,  '  That's  right.  Sir, 
I  like  to  be  received  in  this  way ;  I  shall  get  £10 
out  of  you.  Now,  as  your  time  is  valuable,  be 
quick  about  it,  and  write  a  check  on  this  slip  of 
]japer  at  once.'  This  audacity  didn't  amuse  me. 
I  felt  myself  getting  into  a  lively  rage — quite  a 
rage,  Miss  Blake.  Doubtless  the  importunate 
gentleman  saw  I  was  not  to  be  trifled  with,  for 
he  suddenly  changed  his  manner,  rose  from  my 
chair,  and  pushing  one  of  the  hosjiital  prospect- 
uses into  my  hand  said  :  '  Well,  Sir,  I  won't  dis- 
turb you  ;  but  you  shouldn't  speak  so  harshly  to 
a  clergyman  w'ho,  at  the  worst,  is  only  a  little 
too  zealous  in  behalf  of  a  public  undertaking.'  I 
was  so  far  mollified  by  this  speech  that  I  took 
the  jiroffered  jirospectus  and  glanced  my  cyo 
over  the  first  sheet  before  crumpling  it  uj)  nnd 
l)utting  it  in  my  jiocket.  'Here,  Sir,'  I  cried, 
calling  the  clergyman  back,  '  wait  an  instant — I 
ajiologize  for  my  rudeness;  but  a  lawyer  in  tho 
middle  of  term  niav  be  excused  for  being  a  little 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


147 


fiei'ce  with  strangers  wlio  enter  his  office  and 
consume  his  time  to  no  jmrpose.  Here,  ISir,  take 
your  checli.  Good-morning.'  Tlicnian  took  up 
my  clieck;  but,  confound  his  impudence,  he  coukl 
nt)t  leave  the  room  without  saying,  trium])hantlyj 
'I  told  you  so,  Sir.  Here's  your  cheek  for  £10, 
written  on  the  very  same  i)ieoe  of  paper  that  I 
took  from  your  case.'  I  am  not  an  irritable  man, 
iVIiss  Blake  ;  but  really  if  he  had  not  been  a  cler- 
gyman I  don't  think  we  should  have  parted  with- 
out more  words.  'Never  mind,'  I  said  to  my- 
self, taking  out  the  crumpled  ]irospectus  from 
the  ])oeket  of  my  coat-tail,  '  that  paper  is  more 
-jrorth  having  than  my  check!'  " 

•'Why,  what  was  on  it?"  I  asked. 

"Look,"  he  answered,  taking  the  same  crum- 
pled prospectus  from  his  pocket  once  more,  and 
laying  it  out  on  the  table  before  me — "  look  !  do 
you  see  the  matron's  name?" 

I  followed  his  finger  to  the  point  indicated, 
and  there,  to  my  inexpressible  surjirise  and  grat- 
ification, I  saw  among  the  names  of  the  perma- 
nent officers  and  servants  of  the  Hospital  for  Sick 
Children  in  Marchioness  Street  these  words  in 
full  capital  letters :  "  Matron — Tabitha  Tree." 

"Bravo!"  I  cried,  with  genuine  exultation. 

"There!  thei'e  !  we've  unearthed  her!"  said 
Mr.  Castleton,  looking  at  me  with  the  keen  sense 
of  pleasure  which  a  player  experiences  when  he 
wins  a  point  in  a  difficult  and  imjiortant  game. 

"We  must  put  ourselves  in  communication 
with  her  at  once,"  I  exclaimed,  impetuously. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Castleton,  recovering  in  a 
moment  all  his  ordinary  composure,  "  that  would 
be  useless,  and  to  do  so  might  only  be  to  show 
our  game  to  others.  Mr.  Gurley  assured  me 
that  Miss  Tabitha  Tree  knew  no  more  than  he 
or  I  did  about  the  fate  of  her  sister.  It  would 
therefore  do  ms  no  good,  and  would  only  pain 
her,  to  show  her  that  her  retreat  is  discovered, 
and  to  cross-question  her  about  the  points  on 
which  we  are  already  sufficiently  informed.  My 
trip  to  Laughton  put  me  in  possession  of  every 
thing  that  she  can  tell  us.  We  must  let  her  keep 
quiet  where  she  is.  She  is  a  card  in  our  hamls, 
and  it  is  possible  that  one  day  she  will  turn  out 
a  trump-card  for  us.  Let  us  be  cautious,  and 
leave  what  is  well  already  alone  in  that  quarter. 
Caution  !  caution  ! — any  how,  if  I  am  not  mistak- 
en, we  know  more  than  Mr.  Gurley  of  I^ntighton." 

This  last  reflection  evidently  gave  my  solicitor 
great  satisfaction. 

"But,"  said  I,  with  a  painful  doubt,  "may 
there  not  be  two  Tabitha  Trees  ?  After  all,  this 
may  not  be  our  one." 

"The  name  is  singular,"  said  Mr.  Castleton, 
sententiously. 

"  True  ;  but  that  singularity  does  not  amount 
to  proof." 

"I'll  tell  you  something  else.  As  soon  as  I 
had  reason  to  take  an  interest  in  this  Children's 
Hospital  I  looked  at  the  names  of  its  supporters, 
ill  1  among  the  names  of  the  lady  patfonesses  I 
found  the  name  of  Mrs.  Monk  of  Clapton,  a  good 
and  charitable  woman,  in  whose  family  Mrs.  Cas- 
tleton's  present  housekeeper  lived  some  years 
since.  At  my  request  Mrs.  Castleton  questioned 
our  housekeeper  about  her  former  mistress,  and 
the  result  of  her  questions  was  the  discovery 
that  Miss  Tabitha  Tree,  the  present  matron  of 
the  Marchioness  Street  Hospital,  entered  Mrs. 
Monk's  service  as  a  nursery-governess,  at  a  date 


that  must  have  been  very  shortly  after  your  Etty 
Tree's  flight  from  Laughton.  In  Mrs.  Monk's 
family  the  housekeeper  and  the  nursery-govern- 
ess were  on  terms  of  equality,  and  consequently 
my  wife's  housekeeper  had  good  means  of  ascer- 
taining all  that  Miss  Tree  allowed  the  world  to 
know  about  herself.  It  appears,  then,  that  when 
she  entered  Mrs.  Monk's  family  she  had  only 
recently  arrived  in  London  from  the  country. 
She  was  quite  ignorant  of  the  topography,  public 
buildings,  and  amusements  of  the  town  ;  but  she  ■ 
never  manifested  any  curiosity  about  them,  all 
her  care  being  apparently  directed  to  the  welfare 
of  the  children  placed  under  her  charge.  To  my 
housekeeper's  inquiries  she  admitted  that  she  had 
passed  all  her  previous  life  in  an  out-of-the-way 
province ;  or,  as  my  informant  expressed  it, 
'right  in  the  country.'  But  she  was  ^venj  close 
about  her  past  life,  loould  never  talk  about  the  places 
in  trhich  she  had  lived  be/ore  coming  to  Mrs.  Monk's, 
and  alivai/s  kejd  herself  to  herself.''  She  was  an 
excellent  nurseiy-governess,  and  much  esteemed 
by  Mrs.  Monk,  but  in  the  opinion  of  the  house- 
keeper was  '  a  mystery  !' " 

"  All  these  facts,"  I  said,  when  Mr.  Castleton 
paused,  "  go  far  to  accomplish  the  work  of  iden- 
tification, l)Ut  still  they  are  not  conclusive.'" 

The  doubt  having  once  risen  in  my  mind  as 
to  the  identity  of  Tabitha  Tree  of  Laughton  and 
Tabitha  Tree  of  the  Marchioness  Street  Hospi- 
tal, it  was  not  to  he  removed  Ly  any  ordinary 
sort  of  ch-cumstantial  evidence. 

"Well,  then,  I  will  tell  you  something  else," 
said  Mr.  Castleton. 

He  always  kept  the  best  point  of  a  communi- 
cation to  the  last,  and  I  felt  sure  that  it  was  now 
about  to  be  revealed.  The  smile  of  my  lawyer's 
face  told  me  so. 

"  When  I  was  at  Laughton,"  he  continued,  ' '  I 
saw  her  portrait — a  rather  well-executed  crayon 
sketch,  which  a  traveling  artist  had  taken  of  her 
for  Mrs.  Gurley's  pleasure.  I  remarked  that  por- 
trait, examining  it  carefully,  and  laying  up  all 
its  peculiarities  in  my  memory.  Well,  yesterday 
I  happened  to  be  passing  along  Marchioness 
Street,  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  should  like 
to  inspect  the  interior  of  the  hospital  to  which 
I  had  so  recently  contributed  £10.  So  I  knocked 
at  the  door,  and  on  the  porter  opening  it,  I  stated 
tluit  I  was  a  subscriber  to  the  hospital,  and  I 
should  wish  to  look  at  the  wards.  From  the 
man's  countenance  it  was  clear  that  my  ajijilica- 
tion  was  unusual ;  but  he  went  to  the  matron's 
room,  and  brought  her  to  me.  The  moment  that 
I  saw  her  /  knew  her  to  be  the  lady  ivhose  portrait 
I  had  seen  at  Laughton,  in  Mrs.  Gurley's  drawing- 
room.  It  only  took  me  a  few  minutes  to  inspect 
the  wards,  but  dui-ing  that  short  time  I  saw 
enough  of  jMiss  Tree  —  in  the  kindness  of  her 
tone  to  the  unhappy  little  patients,  in  the  delight 
their  countenances  evinced  when  she  approached 
them,  and  in  her  graceful  simplicity  to  me,  to  be 
sure  that  the  Gurleys  had  not  overrated  her  good 
qualities.  She  manifested  a  little  curiosity  about 
my  name,  and  asked  me  if  I  would  not  make  an 
entry  in  the  visitor's  note-book,  to  the  efl'ect  that 
I  had  inspected  the  wards,  and  been  gratified  by 
what  I  saw  there.  But,  of  course,  I  did  not  com- 
ply. It  was  my  business  to  learn  who  she  was 
—not  to  let  out  who  I  was.  Now,  Miss  Blake, 
have  we  unearthed  her?" 

'"We  have  unearthed  her  I"  I  answered  em- 


148 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


))haticalh-.  "Oh,  Mr.  Castleton,  yon  wonder- 
ful iiiiin  !  Ydu  seem  to  know  something  about 
C'Vfiy  thing  and  every  body.  At  ])rosent,  we  can 
n.it  say  what  good  tiiis  discovery  will  do  us.  But 
;iny  iiow  it  is  an  omen — a  bright  omen  for  the 
f(Uurc !"  . 

•'  Exactly  so,  Miss  Blake — it  is  a  bright  omen  ! 
"We  had  just  come  to  that  point  when  we  sorely 
needed  a  little  refreshing  encouragement,  and 
uiiw  we  have  it." 

But  though  I  saw  clearly  the  propriety  of  not 
disturbing  Tibby  Tree  in  the  retreat  she  had 
cliosen  for  herself,  I  could  not  rest  content  witli-, 
out  'loing  something  to  aid  her  in  her  charitable 
uUvlertaking. 

Mr.  Castleton's  inquiries  into  the  system  and 
object  of  the  hospital  convinced  him  that  it  was 
a  most  excellent  institution.  Its  only  want  was 
a  want  of  funds  ;  and  that  want,  after  much  con- 
sideration, I  determined  to  sujjply.  I  was  no 
longer  the  rich  woman  I  had  once  been ;  but  I 
still  had  the  use  of  my  villa  at  Fulham,  the  land 
round  it,  and  the  ijiterest  of  the  £50,000  in  the 
liinuls  of  my  trustees.  In  all  I  had  a  well-a])- 
piiinted  residence,  and  a  little  more  than  £2000 
]i"r  auiinm.  Trecluded  as  I  was  from  society  by 
my  domestic  troubles,  I  therefore  still  had  ample 
wealth  ;  and  I  resolved  to  devote  a  portion  of  it 
to  protection  of  the  poor  sick  children  of  London. 
Tlie  solemn  and  sacred  memory  of  my  own  dar- 
ling babe,  lying  in  its  last  rest  in  Burstead 
church,  encouraged  me  to  give  such  aid  to  Tibby 
Tree.  I  therefore  directed  Mr.  Castleton  at  once 
fn  take  measures  to  put  into  the  hands  of  the  hos- 
])ital  committee  £1000,  on  condition  they  forth- 
with enlarged  the  liosjjital  and  increased  their 
number  of  bsds.  I  also  promising  to  give  the 
charity  a  sufficient  annual  income  to  support  the 
new  wards  and  a  part  of  their  inmates. 

The  details  of  this  arrangement  I  left  to  Mr. 
Castleton  ;  and  he,  persevering  in  his  pl.an  of 
caution,  paid  my  contribution  in  to  the  commit- 
tee under  the  name  of  "  Grace  Temple  ;"  where- 
upon they  added  another  huge,  dusty  old  man- 
sion to  the  original  domicile  of  the  charity,  and 
in  compliment  to  their  benefactress  named  it 
afier  her,  "Grace  Temple." 

I  more  than  once  recreated  myself  with  walk- 
ing down  the  ]iavement  of  IMarchionoss  Street, 
and  with  looking  at  the  front  of  the  hospital  I 
had  benefited ;  but  I  neither  entered  its  walls, 
nor  set  eyes  on  Tibby  Tree,  till  about  two  years 
had  elapsed  since  the  dute  of  my  benefaction. 


CHAPTER  III. 


■WHAT    IT    POINTED   TO. 


Aftkr  anotlier  ten  months,  when  as  I  sat  in 
my  garden  at  Fulham,  with  bees  and  butterflies 
making  music  and  brisk  life  around,  and  with 
the  silent  traffic  of  the  river  aiding  tlie  sunlight 
and  the  sliaile  to  detain  me  in  a  luxiu'ious  day- 
dream, Dr.  Ciarges  drove  n\>  to  tlu;  door,  and 
nlighting  from  his  phaeton  came  across  the  lawn 
to  the  corner  where  I  was  sitting 

Mr.  Castleton  had  brought  down  the  first  game 
in  om*  long  search  ;  and  now  Dr.  Ciarges  was 
to  show  tliat  he  also  was  a  good  sportsman. 

".My  dear,"  the  kind  old  man  said,  "I  came 
ujj  last  night  from  Berkshire." 


"From  Berkshire ?" 

"Ay,  and  you  must  be  prepared  to-morrow 
by  nine  o'clock  a.m.  to  start  with  me  on  an  ex- 
cursion down  into  Berkshire." 

"What  I"  I  exclaimed,  starting  up  from  my 
cliair — the  butterflies,  and  the  odoriferous  flow- 
ers,'and  tlic  silent  silver  Thames,  and  myliapjjy 
da\--dream  all  driven  out  of  my  head,  "you  have 
not  discovered  Etty  Tree  ?" 

"  That  remains  to  be  proved  ;  but  I  have  dis- 
covered at  the  Belle  Vue  Lunatic  Asylum,  just 
nine  miles  distant  from  Reading,  a  lady  named 
Annette  Watchit." 

"Annette  Watchit?" 

"Ay!  And  if  I  am  not  mistaken  we  shall 
find  tliat  Annette  Watchit  is  Etty  Tree." 

"Dear  doctor,  don't  be  slow.  Tell  me  every 
thing  in  an  instant." 

"Nay,  I  can't  do  that.  You  made  a  heart- 
rending story  of  how  Castleton  tortured  you  when 
he  revealed  to  you  his  discovery  of  Tibby  Tree  ; 
now  it  is  my  turn  to  play  with  your  feelings. 
But  I  will  be  as  brief  as  possible.  To  begin, 
then  :  two  montiis  since  there  came  to  my  hands 
a  check  for  £100  drawn  by  Dr.  Hankinson,  the 
proprietor  of  the  Belle  Vue  Asylum,  upon  '  Pe- 
tersham and  Blake,'  of  Lombard  Street.  I  had 
no  personal  knowledge  whatever  of  Dr.  Hankin- 
son, but  I  knew  him  by  repute  to  be  one  of  the 
most  successful  mad-doctors  in  the  kingdom. 
Ills  establishment,  called  '  Belle  Vue,'  is  a  mag- 
nificent country  mansion — one  of  the  best  houses, 
indeed,  in  all  Berkshire — and  stands  in  a  fine 
park,  through  which  a  river,  well-known  to  an- 
glers, takes  its  course.  Ilis  rates  of  charge  for 
the  care  of  patients  I  also  knew  to  be  very  high 
— varying  between  £300  and  £400  per  annum. 
Tiie  clieck  of  which  I  speak  was  passed  into  my 
hands  by  a  Berkshire  tradesman,  and  roused  tlie 
suspicion  of  my  already  sus])icious  temper.  'A 
check,'  I  said, '  for£100  on  PetershamandBlake ! 
The  sum  would  be  exactly  the  fee  for  one  quarter 
of  a  year's  care  of  one  of  Dr.  Hankinson's  first- 
class  patients.'  Of  course,  by  itself,  the  circum- 
stance was  not  worthy  a.  moment's  thought. 
Doubtless  many  of  the  wealthy  persons  who 
had  confided  insane  relatives  to  I)r.  Hankinson's 
care  kept  accounts  with  'Petersham  and  Blake,' 
and  it  was  quite  natural  that  any  such  ])erson 
(to  relieve  himself  cif  unnecessary  thought  and 
trouble  about  a  painful  matter)  should  cm))Ower 
Dr.  Hankinson  to  draw  to  the  amount  of  his  fees 
uj)on  his  London  banker  Such  an  arrangement 
is  not  only  cxplical)]c,  but  accords  with  every- 
day usage.  It  was  credible  that  Dr.  Hankin- 
son drew  quarterly  a  hundred-pound  note  from 
several  diti'erent  London  baidvcrs,  who  had  re- 
ceived directions  to  honor  his  checks  to  that  or 
even  a  far  greater  amount.  Still  the  occurrence 
was  enough  to  put  me  on  the  alert,  and  to  make 
me  determine  that  I  would  on  the  first  oi)])ortu- 
nity  ])ay  Dr.  Hankinson  a  visit.  Without  much 
dilliculty^  found  a  ]iliysician  who  could  give 
me  a  suitable  letter  of  introduction  to  Dr.  Han- 
kinson ;  when,  just  as  T  was  looking  out  for  two 
vacant  days  on  which  to  go  down  to  Berkshire, 
I  fortimatcly  was  consulted  by  the  family  of  Lord 
OMkfield  as  to  a  pro]ier  asylum  for  the  confine- 
ment of  that  uuhapiiy  and  notorious  nobleman, 
Kiuiwing  that  Dr.  Hankinson  in' his  spacious  es- 
tablisliiui'ut  I'eccived  patients  of  both  sexes,  I  sug' 
gistcd  '  Belle  Vue'  as  a  fit  place,  and  oftered,  as 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


149 


T  Iiappencd  to  be  goinj;  into  Horksliire  in  the 
course  of  a  few  dayt^,  to  speiik  to  Dr.  Ilankinsoii 
on  tlie  subject.  Tiiis  oft'cr  was,  1  need  not,  say, 
accepted,  and  I  went  down  to  'Belle  Vue'  with 
two  introductions  to  Dr.  llankiuson's  favor — 
namely,  a  letter  from  one  of  his  most  intimate 
friends,  and  a  mission  to  place  in  his  hands  an 
aristocratic  and  opulent  jiaticnt.  1  think  that 
the  latter  was  the  more  effectual. 

"Of  course  Dr.  Ilaukinson  was  familiar  with 
my  jjrofessional  position,  and  was  well  jdeased 
to  receive  as  a  guest  one  so  well  able  to  assist 
him  in  his  vocation.  After  inspecting  all  the 
arrangements  for  the  doctor's  jxxtients  (and  tlic 
arrangements  I  must  say  are  admirable — really 
no  one  would  object  to  be  mad  if  he  was  secure 
of  being  sent  to  such  a  delightful  place  as  '  Belle 
Vuel')  I  found  myself  sitting  down  to  an  ex- 
cellent dinner  with  Dr.  ILmkinson's  wife  and 
daughters.  Dr.  Hankinson  and  I  were  the  only 
gentlemen  of  the  party  ;  and  when  the  ladies  left 
us  we  had  a  little  confidential  chat  over  some 
Burgundy,  that  really,  Olive,  is  almost  as  good 
as  vours. 

"  '  What  is  the  history,'  I  said,  '  of  that  young 
nudancholy  creature  you  spoke  to,  near  the  fount- 
ains, half  an  hour  before  dinner,  just  as  we  left 
the  aviary  ?  You  remember  her?  slight  figure, 
and  delicate  face  (full  of  sadness),  with  a  profu- 
sion of  golden  hair  ?' 

"  'Ah,'  said  Dr.  Hankinson,  filling  his  glass 
(I  noticed  that  he  drank  rather  freely),  '  that's  a 
painful  and  very  singular  case.  That  beautiful 
girl  was  some  years  since  Sir  George  Watchit's 
toy — either  mistress  or  wife  (there  is  some  doubt 
whether  he  married  her),  and.  she  is  the  vic- 
tim of  a  most  extraordinary  hallucination.  Sir 
George  Watchit  lived  with  the  girl  abroad,  in 
Monaco  and  elsewhere,  and  when  he  grew  tired 
of  her,  left  her  and  her  babe  and  went  back  to 
the  East.  Her  madness  takes  as  strange  a  form 
as  I  iiave  ever  known  insanity  take.  Sir  George 
Watchit's  intimate  friend  was  Mr.  Petersham, 
now  Lord  Byfield,  p<ie  eminent  capitalist;  and 
when  Sir  George  was  bent  on  deserting  this  poor 
girl  Lord  Byfield  took  her  part,  and  urged  his 
friend  to  treat  her  honorably.  Sir  George,  how- 
ever, took  his  own  heartless  course,  and  left  the 
girl  in  Italy  bereft  of  her  senses.  She  almost 
died ;  but  Lord  Byfield  humanely  took  charge 
of  her,  and  saw  her  restored  from  the  danger  of 
death,  but  not  restored  to  her  original  sound- 
ness of  intelligence.  Grateful  to  Lord  Byfield 
for  his  kindness  in  taking  her  part  against  her 
betrayer  and  deserter,  she  conceived  the  j)re- 
posterous  notion  that  she  had  never  lived  as  the 
wife  of  Major  Watchit,  but  was  actually  married 
to  Lord  Byfield.  A  more  painful  position  for 
Lord  Byfield  (Mr.  Petersham  he  then  was)  can 
n  .t  l)j  imagined.  She  had  no  friends  who  would 
naturally  be  looked  to  to  take  custody  of  her.  So 
Lord  Byfield  very  properly  and  liberally  provided 
for  her  care  abroad  until  he  should  hear  from 
Sir  George  Watchit  in  India.  But  she  soon  con- 
trived to  escape  from  her  place  of  detention,  trav- 
eled (Heaven  kiyjws  how!)  through  France,  and 
positively  burst  into  Lord  Byfield's  house  in 
Grosvcnor  Square,  shortly  after  his  marriage 
(which,  by-the-by,  has  turned  out  badly),  and 
frightened  the  lady  of  the  house  by  telling  her 
that  she  was  the  victim  of  a  bigandst.  She  even 
stated  the  very  church  in  which  she  asserted  she 


and  Mr.  Petersham  had  been  married.  In  that 
she  showed  the  imprudence  of  madness,  just  as 
in  other  particulars  of  her  story  she  displayed  the 
jn-udence  which  often  marks  the  insane.  A  ref- 
erence to  the  cliurch  register  jiroved  tliat  her  as- 
sertion was  only  an  astounding  fabrication  of 
dementia ;  and  it  was  just  as  easily  ascertained 
that  she  had  been  Sir  George  Watchit's  mistress. 
Well,  of  course  such  a  person  could  not  be  al-  ■ 
lowed  to  go  at  large.  Mrs.  Petersham  was  al- 
ready expecting  the  birth  of  an  heir  to  the  vitst 
fortunes  of  "Petersham  and  Blake ;"  and  a  repe- 
tition of  the  alarm  she  had  already  undergone 
might  be  the  cause  of  lamentable  disaster.  Un- 
der these  circumstances,  therefore,  the  beautiful 
demented  creature  was,  of  course,  captured  and 
sent  to  me.' 

"  '  By  Lord  Byfield— that  is,  Mr.  Petersham?' 
I  put  in. 

"  'Oh  no,'  was  the  answer,  much  to  my  sur- 
])rise ;  '  the  order  consigning  her  to  my  care 
was  signed  by  the  Right  Honorable  Sir  Charles 
Norton.' 

"  'What!'  I  said,  'by  our  present  Secretary 
of  State?' 

"'The  same,'  answered  Dr.  Hankinson. 
'  You  seem  surprised,  but  there  is  no  occasion 
for  it.  Lord  Byfield  of  course  would  not  send 
me  the  lunatic,  on  his  own  responsibility,  since 
he  was  so  peculiarly  pointed  at  by  her  madness. 
So  he  spoke  on  the  subject  to  Sir  Charles  Norton, 
and  that  statesman,  whose  integrity  and  loftiness 
of  purpose  are  beyond  even  the  stabs  of  calumny, 
ordered  me  to  take  charge  of  Annette  AYatchit. 
Sir  Charles  had  also  some  personal  acquaintance 
with  Sir  George  Watchit,  and  had  therefore  ])Vi- 
vate  means  of  knowing  the  nature  of  the  girl's 
relations  to  Sir  George.' 

"  '  Whose  names  were  appended  to  the  medic- 
al certificate?'  I  inquired. 

"  'Really  I  forget — but  if  you  are  curious  I'll 
go  to  my  library  and  get  the  order  and  the  cer- 
tificate for  your  inspection.' 

"I  expressed  a  moderate  wish  to  sec  'the 
]iapers'  mentioned — a  wish  decided  enough  in 
its  expression  to  make  him  leave  the  table  and 
forthwith  produce  the  papers,  and  at  the  same 
time  not  sufficiently  pronounced  to  rouse  suspi- 
cion on  his  ])art. 

"  The  order  and  medical  certificate  were  both 
in  pro])er  form.  The  two  physicians,  certifying 
the  insanity  of  the  patient,  were  men  of  high 
character — Dr.  Atkins  and  Dr.  Tecsdale.  I  am 
familiar  with  their  handwriting,  and  there  is  no 
doubt  that  the  signatures  are  genuine.  In  the 
order,  too,  there  was  nothing  to  remark  upon, 
save  that  the  space  in  the  ordinary  form,  where 
the  person  ordering  the  detention  of  the  lunatic 
is  required  to  state  his  rclationshi]i  or  position 
to  the  insane  person,  so  committed  by  the  order 
to  custody,  was  filled  up  with  these  words  in  Sir 
Charles  Norton's  handwriting  .  '  I  am  in  no  way 
whatever  related  to  the  lunatic,  Annette  Watchit, 
but  I  act  in  behalf  of  a  personal  friend,  now  in 
foreign  ])arts,  whose  wife  I  believe  the  lunatic 
to  be. — C.  N.'  I  know  Sir  Charles  Norton's 
handwriting  as  well  as  I  do  the  writing  of 
Drs.  Atkins  and  Tecsdale,  and  I  have  no  liesi- 
tation  in  saying  that  the  signature  of  the  order 
is  his. 

"  Now,  Olive,  you  have  heard  my  story.  Do 
you  not  think  I  am  justified  in  suspecting  that 


150 


OLIVE  BLAKE'y  GOOD  WORK. 


Annette  AViiteliit  will  turn  out  to  be  Annette 
'I'lve  ?" 

"Dr.  Cliirges,"  I  said,  when  I  bad  heard  this 
astoiimling  eoniinunication,  "Sir  Charles  Norton 
may  have  signed  the  order,  but  it  was  done  at 
mv  husliand's — I  mean.  Lord  Byfield's — request. 
I  remember  that  three  day.s  after  I  told  my  hns- 
banil  of  Etty  Tree's  visits  to  me  in  Grosvenor 
Sijuare,  Sir  Cliarlcs  Nortcm  dined  with  us,  and 
Lord  Ijviiekl  led  me  on  to  tell  him — as  a  very 
old  and  intimate  friend — of  the  vexation  I  had 
und^-rgone  during  the  few  jirevious  weeks.  I 
now  remember,  as  clearly  as  if  it  hapjjened  only 
yesterday,  that  as' we  dro])ped  the  tojjic  Lord  By- 
lield  and  Sir  Charles  Norton  exchanged  glanecs, 
and  Lord  Byfield  said,  signilieantly,  '  Slie  u-oiit 
repeat  her  visit.''  Those  glances  and  those  words 
were  the  first  cause  for  my  suspecting  that  Etty 
Tree  had  been  reconsigned  to  medical  care  by 
Lord  Byfield." 

"  Indeed — that  is  most  im]jortant,  for  it  estab- 
lishes an  association  in  this  ])articnlar  business 
between  Lord  Byfield  and  Sir  Charles  Norton. 
But  Sir  Charles  is  a  most  honorable  man." 

"  True,  doctor,"  I  answered,  "  but  he  has  been 
imposed  u])on  by  the  same  considerations  which 
led  Dr.  Atkins  and  I'r.  Tccsclale — also  honorable 
men,  and  of  unassailable  ivjiutations — to  sign  the 
medical  certificate." 

"And,  by  Jove!  Olive,"  Dr.  Clarges  exclaim- 
ed, with  unusual  warmth,  "  he  might  well  bo  so 
imposed  upon !  I  am  sure  that  had  I  been  in 
the  place  of  either  Dr.  Atkins  or  Dr.  Teesdale  I 
should  have  done  as  they  did.  And  after  all, 
.apart  from  our  jjositive  convictions,  based  more 
on  susj)icion  than  any  thing  else,  what  have  wc 
to  orter  as  proof  that  she  is  not  insane  ?" 

"Any  how  we  have  arrived  at  this,"  I  an- 
swered, "that  Lord  Byfield  and  Sir  Charles 
Norton  acted  in  concert;  and  that  when  Lord 
Byfield  told  me  he  had  searched,  and  was  still 
searching.  vnaiYii/iiii//i/,  for  '  the  mad  girl' — he 
told  me  that  which  was  utterly  untrue.  What 
does  tlifit  /ie point  to?  Answer  me.  Dr.  Clarges. 
What  does  it  jioint  to?'' 

"Well,  it  looks  awkward,"  said  the  doctor, 
evasively. 

"Dr.  Clarges — I'll  tell  you  what  it  joints  to. 
It  }>oiiits  to  tpn'/t." 

"I  am  afraid  it  does." 

"Dr.  Clarges — J  hojie  it  does!  Wliy  do  yon 
say  that  you  are  a/raid  it  does  ?" 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  can  not 
help  remembering  what  yon  would  be  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world  if  you  should  succeed  in  proving  that 
Lord  Byfield  had  done  you  the  most  crtul  in- 
jury a  man  can  do  a  woman." 

"Never  mind  that,  my  dear  old  friend,"  I 
said,  feeling,  however,  warm  tears  rise  in  my 
•eyes;  "I  slioidd  then  only  be  in  reality  what  I 
now  cull  myself — Olive  BlaLe." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

BELLK    VUK. 

Aa  we  traveled  down  into  Berkshire  Dr. 
Clarges  and  I  had  time  to  discuss  more  fully  the 
nature  of  Etty  Tree's  ))osition  at  Belle  Vue,  and 
the  ]irobability  of  our  being  able  to  induce  Dr. 
Ilankinson  to  surrender  his  jjatient  into  our  cus- 
tody.    My  wish  was  to  take  her  back  with  us 


to  Fulham ;  but  Dr.  Clarges  and  Mr.  Castleton 
both  foresaw  many  contingencies  which  would 
render  it  nnadvisable  for  me  to  do  so.  If  Dr. 
Ilankinson  should  be  opposed  to  our  taking  pos- 
session of  her,  wc  clearly  could  nut  compel  him 
to  give  her  up  to  us  without  using  measures 
which  would  j)Ut  an  end  to  all  possibility  of 
keeping  our  movements  unknown  to  Lord  By- 
field.  Notwithstanding  the  ex])osure  of  the  tri- 
al. Lord  Byiield  was  still  a  personage  highly  re- 
spected by  the  world.  The  scandal  of  the  scene 
in  Westminster  Hall  had  blown  over,  and  those 
who  bore  it  in  mind  only  regarded  it  as  one  of 
those  "  awkward  afi'airs"  which  were  too  com- 
mon, a  generation  since,  to  cover  those  concern- 
ed in  them  with  lasting  obloquy.  As  a  finan- 
cial jjower  in  the  country  his  ]iosition  had  great- 
ly improved  duiing  the  last  year  and  a  half;  and 
tliough  society  severely  censured  him  (fori*' nine 
days")  for  his  conduct  to  me,  it  had  learned  to 
be  charitable  to  the  peer  and  the  jiowerful  cajii- 
talist.  It  was  true,  he  and  his  wife  lived  ajart 
from  each  other  by  an  amicable  arrangement, 
but  (said  society)  it  would  never  do  to  put  every 
man  under  a  ban  who  did  not  find  it  agreeable 
to  live  with  a  wife  united  to  him  by  a  iiiariwje 
de  coiwenarice.  Moreover,  Sir  Charles  Norton, 
who  was  responsible  for  Etty's  confinement,  was 
still  the  intimate  friend  of  Lord  Byfield.  If, 
therefore,  Dr  Ilankinson  should  inform  the  Sec- 
retary of  State  that  an  attempt  was  being  made 
to  remove  Etty  Tree  from  Belie  Vue,  there  could 
be  no  doubt  that  the  intelligence  would  be 
promptly  conveyed  to  his  lordship. 

"I  do  not  see  how  we  can  get  hold  of  her 
without  letting  Dr.  Hankinson  in  some  measure 
into  our  confidence,  and  inducing  him  to  be  a 
sort  of  negative  coadjutor  in  our  arrangements," 
observed  Dr,  Clarges. 

"To  what  motives  w ould  he  be  most  likely  to 
prove  obedient?" 

"To  interested  ones,"  returned  the  doctor, 
curtly. 

"Indeed?" 

"Ay.  Ilankinson  has  a  high  reputation; 
but  successful  as  he  has  been  in  his  department 
of  my  profession,  I  know  that  he  is  to  some  ex- 
tent an  embarrassed  man.  His  establishment 
at  'Belle  Vue'  is  necessarily  very  expensive. 
For  the  accommodation  of  his  aristocratic  pa- 
tients ho  has  to  maintain  horses,  equipages,  and 
servants  suiHeicnt  for  the  dignity  of  a  duke. 
Moreover,  he  is  a  man  of  costly  ])leasures.  He 
hunts  and  visits  on  terms  of  equality  with  the 
leading  county  families  bf  his  i)art  of  Berkshire, 
and  he  amuses  himself  with  the  turf  and  high 
l)lay.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  he  is  running 
on  the  road  to  unavoidable  ruin ;  but  he  is  un- 
questionalily  improvident,  and  has  to  jump  at 
every  chance  of  getting  a  new  patient.  Indeed 
I  know  that  in  some  cases  he  has  lowered  his 
terms  rather  than  have  an/  portiop  of  his  house 
unoccupied." 

"The  more  reason  why  he  would  be  un"will- 
ing  to  give  up  a  cpiiet  jjatient  w^ho  troubles  him 
but  little,  and  ])ays  liim  £400  a^year." 

"Well,  so  it  is  a  reason,  viewed  from  one 
point." 

The  doctor  said  these  words  with  such  a  pe- 
culiar accent  and  significance  that  I  started  in 
my  seat,  and  said,  "  Surely  you  don't  think  of 
olicring  him  a  bribe  f 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


151 


"Well,  Miss  Olive,"  answered  Dr.  Clarges 
with  a  smile,  "if  I  do,  I  sha'n't  call  it  by  that 
name." 

"  Speak  more  plainly." 

"  I  will.  Dr.  Hankiuson  (agreeable  and  ac- 
complished man  though  he  is)  is  a  determined, 
perhaps  I  might  say  an  unscru])uloiis,  man  of 
business.  He  will  do  completely  and  thorough- 
ly his  duty  to  all  patients  committed  to  his  care. 
That  is  to  say,  he  will  cure  them  if  he  can.  But 
he  will  take  every  possible  means  to  get  more  of 
them.  Now  he  is  doubtless  this  very  day  say- 
ing to  himself,  'It  is  very  convenient  to  have 
one  of  the  vacant  places  in  my  house  filled  up  by 
Lord  Oakfield ;  and  I  like  my  new  patient  all 
the  better  because  he  is  sent  to  me  by  a  success- 
ful and  fashionable  physician,  with  whom  I  have 
previously  had  no  dealings,  and  who,  if  he  likes, 
can  send  me  one  or  two  more  patients  every 
year.  I  must  be  carefid  wliat  I  do  with  Dr. 
Clarges.     I  must  take  care  to  please  him.'  " 

"  Of  course.     I  see." 

"Suppose,  then,  that  I  say  to  Dr.  Ilankinson, 
'Etty  Tree  no  longer  stands  in  need  of  your 
surveil/ance.  She  never  required  it  from  a  med- 
ical ]>oint  of  view,  but  simply  that  she  might  not 
annoy  a  particular  lady,  who,  far  from  wishing 
the  young  woman  to  be  confined  in  your  asylum 
any  longer,  wishes  to  make  her  a  member  of  her 
own  family.  I  could  easily  make  you  give  her 
into  my  hands,  for  I  can  produce  the  girl's  next 
of  kin,  who  would  engage  that  the  hallucination 
under  which  she  labors  should  never  be  again  a 
cause  of  annoyance  to  Lord  Byfield.  But  com- 
pulsory measures  would  entail  a  certain  amount 
of  publicity,  which  I  am  especially  anxious  to 
avoid.  Now  your  engagement  with  Sir  Charles 
Norton  is  to  keep  her  in  safe  custody.  You  shall 
continue  to  do  so  by  me,  who  will  act  in  the  mat- 
ter as  your  agent.  I  will  become  responsible  to 
you  for  her  security,  and  I  will  let  you  see  her 
as  often  as  you  wish.  Indeed  I  will  engage  to 
bring  her  down  here  to  stop  for  a  few  days  once 
or  twice  in  the  year,  so  that  you  may  still  regard 
her  as  being  on  the  roll  of  your  patients.  By 
acceding  to  this  proposition  you  would  (jreatly 
oblige  me!'  Suppose,  Olive,  I  said  this  to  Dr. 
Hankinson,  do  you,  think  he  would  accede  to 
my  wishes  ?" 

"Yes;  unless  you  have  misread  his  charac- 
ter." 

' '  And  I  should  not  have  to  talk  about  bribes  ?" 
added  the  doctor,  with  a  smile. 

It  was  drawing  on  to  the  latter  part  of  the  aft- 
ernoon when  Dr.  Clarges  and  I  drove  through 
the  park  of  Belle  Vue.  Dr.  Hankinson  was 
awaiting  our  arrival  on  the  terrace,  and  assisted 
me  from  the  carriage,  with  an  expression  of  the 
pleasure  it  gave  him  to  receive  me  as  his  guest. 
He  was  a  handsome,  well-bred  man  of  the  world, 
but  he  did  not  please  me. 

Dr.  Clarges  had  arranged  that  he  and  I  should 
dine  alone  with  Dr.  Hankinson,  and  that  I  should 
not  see  more  of  Mrs.  Hankinson  and  her  daugh- 
ters than  the  ceremony  of  a  formal  introduction 
should  necessitate.  I  had  come  to  Belle  Vue 
purely  as  a  "business  visitor,"  and  the  proprie- 
tor of  the  asylum  was  in  the  habit  of  displaying 
hospitality  to  "business  visitors"  of  both  sexes, 
without  introducing  them  into  Mrs.  Hankinson's 
drawing-room  That  lady  and  her  family  lived 
in  a  detached  part  of  the  house,  and  had  theii- 


own  grounds  and  conservatories  apart  from  those 
ke]>t  up  for  the  delectation  of  the  patients. 

After  dinner,  as  soon  as  the  servants  had  left 
us,  our  conversation  turned  upon  ICtty  Tree, 
when  Dr.  Hankinson,  who  either  really  was,  or 
feigned  to  be,  ignorant  of  my  relationship  to 
Lord  Byfield,  said,  "Dr. Clarges  has  already  told 
me.  Miss  Blake,  that  you  are  aware  of  the  alarm 
this  poor  creature's  hallucination  caused  Lady 
Byfield  some  three  years  or  more  since.  But 
perhaps  you  are  not  aware;  of  another  remark- 
able feature  of  her  insanity.  She  has  a  son, 
whose  father  was  Major  (afterward  Sir  George) 
Watchit.  This  child  she  secreted  somewhere 
before  she  was  captured  and  given  over  to  me. 
Where  he  is  no  one  that  we  can  discover  knows 
besides  herself.  Again  and  again,  by  arguments 
and  artifices,  I  have  endeavored  to  make  her  re- 
veal where  he  is  concealed,  but  my  eftbrts  have 
been  ineffectual." 

"I  knew  she  had  a  child,"  I  remarked,  curtly. 

"  Her  motive  for  concealment  is  the  prepos- 
terous belief  that  Lord  Byfield  wants  to  obtain 
possession  of  the  child,  in  order  to  remove  him 
as  an  evidence  of  his  intimacy  with  her." 

"Boor  thing!"  I  said,  pityingly. 

' '  Ay,  you  may  well  pity  her.  Away  from  her 
hallucinations,  and  its  attendant  delusion  with 
regard  to  her  child,  she  is  the  sweetest  creature 
imaginable.  She  is  quiet,  tractable,  eager  to 
please,  and  singularly  devoid  of  the  petty  art- 
fulness which  to  their  professional  attendants  is 
the  most  troublesome  of  the  ordinary  character- 
istics of  the  insane.  I  have  long  since  allowed 
her  itnusual  indulgences  in  the  way  of  liberty. 
Attended  by  her  nurse  (a  most  intelligent  and 
pleasant  young  woman)  she  may  go  wherever 
she  pleases  about  the  park;  but  on  week  days 
she  hardly  ever  cares  to  go  beyond  the  precinct 
of  the  little  garden  in  which  we  have  our  orna- 
mental water-works.  She  is  very  particular  to 
attend  the  village  church,  wliich  you  may  see  in 
the  corner  of  the  park  yonder,  twice  every  Sun- 
day ;  and  when  she  is  not  observed  she  is  very 
fond  of  reading  the  Bible,  and  committing  whole 
chapters  to  memory.  Before  she  came  to  us  her 
favorite  comer  of  our  grounds  used  to  be  called 
'the  fountain  garden,' but  we  have  got  into  the 
habit  of  calling  it  now  '  Lady  Byfield's  garden.'  " 

"Oh  then  you  address  her  by  the  title  to 
which  she  imagines  she  has  a  right?" 

"  No,  we  do  not.  But  my  patients  often  play 
upon  each  other's  delusions.  It  is  strange  how 
they  frequently  appreciate  the  folly  of  their  fel- 
low-sufferers' hallucinations,  and  yet  retain  faith 
in  their  own.  Consequently,  knowing  that  poor 
Annette  believes  herself  to  have  been  married  to 
a  Mr.  Petersham,  who  has  since  been  created 
Lord  Byfield,  they  sjieak  of  her  in  mockery 
apiong  themselves  as  'Lady  Byfield.'  Usuayy 
such  raillery  does  no  harm,  for  the  afilicted  per- 
son at  whom  it  is  pointed  takes  it  as -a  genuine 
recognition  of  the  truth  of  that  which  constitutes 
his  delusion.  But  this  is  not  the  case  with  jioor 
Annette.  vShe  knows  her  insane  associates  call 
her  '  Lady  Byfield'  in  mockery,  and  when  she 
hears  the  title  applied  to  her  she  bltislies,  and, 
though  she  says  nothing,  I  can  sec  that  she  is  in 
acute  pain." 

"Oh,  Dr.  Hankinson,"  I  said,  rising,  deeply 
woundeil  by  this  revelation,  "  take  me  to  her  in- 
stantly I" 


152 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


"I  will  pladly  Jo  so,"  he  answered.  "  She  is 
most  probably,  this  line  summer's  evening,  in 
her  customary  seat  in  the  bower,  watching  the 
fountains.     Will  you  accompany  me?" 

Leaving  Dr.  Clargcs  with  the  assurance  that 
he  would  soon  rejoin  him  fur  another  glass  of 
wine,  Dr.  Hankinson  took  me  through  the  beau- 
liful  gardens  of  Belle  Vuc.  Agreeable  as  it  was 
to  know  that  a  favored  few  of  my  mentally  af- 
flicted fellow-creatures  had  such  a  home,  it  was 
still  painful  to  reflect  that  the  terraces  and  walks 
that  lay  before  me  were  daily  trod  upon  by  mad 
people. 

"Are  you  not  afraid,  doctor,  of  your  patients 
escaping?"  I  said,  as  I  surveyed  the  magnificent 
gardens,  lying  wide  and  open  before  my  vision, 
with  apparently  nothing  but  noble  lines  of  ever- 
green shrubs  separating  them  from  the  park. 

He  smiled,  and  leading  me  behind  one  of  the 
luxuriant  walls  of  shrubbery,  showed  me  that 
the  laurels  and  firs  concealed  a  ha-ha  containing 
a  high  fence  of  strong  timber  that  ran  quite  round 
the  spacious  grounds. 

"Ah,  doctor,"!  said,  unable  to  respond  to  his 
triumphant  smile,  "there  are  othtJi*  prisons  in 
this  fearful  world,  the  barriers  of  which  are  Jiid- 
den  by  an  appearance  of  that  which  may  con- 
tribute to  ha))i)incss,  but  does  not  insure  it !" 

"  jMy  dear  JMiss  Blake,"  answered  my  compan- 
ion, "I  am  not  a  moralist,  but  only  a  mad  doc- 
tor. But  sec,  here  we  are  in  the  'fountain  gar- 
den,' and  there  is  Annette.  Now  I'll  leave  you. 
You  can  make  yourself  known  to  her.  The  only 
person  in  the  garden  besides  herself  is  her  nurse, 
who  will  keep  at  a  resjjectful  distance  from  you. 
You  need  fear  no  interruption  from  my  patients  ; 
for  every  patient  has  a  keeper,  who  follows  him 
every  where." 

As  he  spoke  he  led  me  suddenly  into  a  seclud- 
ed nook  of  the  garden,  in  the  midst  of  which 
a  fountain  threw  up  four  ])erpendicular  jets  of 
water,  which  rose  to  about  thirty  feet,  and  then 
curving  gracefully,  fell  down  into  a  basin  of  white 
marble  bedded  in  green  turf. 

At  the  most  distant  corner  of  this  nook  I  saw 
"the  mad  girl"  sitting  with  her  attendant  in 
the  summer-house.  Oh.  how  altered  she  was ! 
What  cruel  work  had  three  years  and  three 
months  of  detention  among  insane  companions, 
together  with  silent  agony  of  heart,  accomj)lish- 
ed!  Iler  delicate  face  had  lost  its  roundness; 
and  the  deep  sadness  that  knows  not  bitterness 
of  language  sat  on  the  brow  of  her  who  once  was 
Solomon  Easy's  merry  little  romp. 

My  stop  ujjon  the  gravel  path  fell  on  her  ear 
while  I  was  still  thirty  paces  from  her.  Taking 
her  eyes  suddenly  from  the  arches  of  sparkling 
water,  she  looked  at  me,  rose  as  if  struck  by  an 
electric  shock,  and  advanced  to  meet  me  witli 
long,  quick  steps.  Twice  she  paused  with  a 
glance  of  terror,  as  if  fearing  herself  the  victim 
of  a  delusion  ;  but  the  ])auses  were  only  instanta- 
neous. Then  on  again  she  came  with  the  quick, 
long  strides,  such  as  an  Indian  hunter  tracking 
his  prey  might  make,  and  in  another  five  seconds 
she  fell  into  my  arms,  and  embracmg  me  round 
the  neck,  exclaimed,  "You've  come  at  last, 
you've  come  at  last  to  deliver  me,  to  deliver 
me  !     Merciful  God,  I  thaidc  thee!" 

Yes,  the  same  merciful  God  who  had  brought 
mc  to  re])entancc  of  my  sin,  and  had  hitherto 
guarded  Tibby  in  her  dark  night  of  trouble,  had 


comforted  Etty  also  with  an  assurance  that  "in 
His  own  good  time  He  would,  by  my  instrmiicntal- 
ity,  jirove  her  innocent  of  that  which  I  had  laid 
to  her  charge." 

Drawing  her  to  the  nearest  garden  bench,  I 
placed  her  like  a  child  by  my  side,  kissing  and 
caressing  her,  and  covering  her  with  endear- 
ments. I  told  her  all  the  story  of  my  life  since 
I  had  seen  her,  how  God  had  jiunished  my  j)ride 
and  cruelty  to  her  with  the  death  of  my  darling 
babe,  and  had  freed  me  from  the  bondage  of  our 
betrayer,  by  showing  me  the  full  extent  of  his 
hateful  wickedness.  I  told  her  that  I  believed 
her  story  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  perfectly, 
and  without  reserve  of  any  kind  ;  and  that  by 
God's  assistance  I  would  clear  away  the  clouds 
of  dishonor  that  hung  over  her.  I  told  her  that 
I  had  been  seeking  her  for  many  long  weary 
months,  and  now  that  I  had  found  her,  she 
should  be  my  friend  till  death  parted  us.  I  told 
her  that  I  was  acquainted  with  the  history  and 
noble  occujjation  of  her  sister  Tibby,  who,  in  her 
stern  tribulation,  w  as  laboring  to  lessen  the  sor- 
row of  others. 

The  moon  had  risen  and  was  watching  ns, 
when  Dr.  Hankinson  found  us  arm  in  arm, 
walking  like  twin  fond  sisters  in  that  fair  garden 
of  the  mad.  He  said  that  we  must  part  for  the 
night,  but  ])i'omised  that  Etty  should  go  home 
with  me  in  the  morning,  for  that  Dr.  Clarges  had 
become  responsible  for  her  safety  and  wise  treat- 
ment. 

So  we  were  constrained  to  part  for  the  night. 

"Good-night,  Etty,"  I  said,  kissing  her  again. 

She  took  mo  a  few  paces  apart,  and  whisjjcred 
in  my  ear,  "Good-night,  Olive.  Pray  for  me 
to-night.  To-morrow  night  we  will  say  our 
prayers  together." 

Having  said  this  she  went  away  meekly  with 
her  attendant. 

Forme,  I  obe3'ed  her  request;  and  afterward, 
when  I  laid  my  head  on  my  pillow,  and  thought 
of  the  silent  sorrow  of  her  quiet  face,  and  her 
patient  submissiveness  under  her  just  but  heavy 
punishment,  I  loved  her  even  as  I  love  her  now 
— as'though  she  were  my  sister. 

And  as  I  reposed  that  night  in  the  home  of 
the  insane,  I  reflected  on  my  awful  sleepless 
nights  of  agony  in  Burstead  House,  when  I 
used  to  cry  aloud,  "Oh,  God,  have  mercy  on 
mc,  and  do  not  shatter  my  reason  1" 


CHAPTER  V. 


ETTTS      STOKT. 


Dk.  Clakges  (as  was  intimated  in  the  last 
chapter)  managed  his  negotiations  so  success- 
fidly  with  Dr.  Hankinson,  that  the  latter  jjrom- 
iscul  to  allow  E'ty  to  return  with  me  to  Fulliam 
on  the  next  day.  By  the  night  of  that  next 
day  I  drove  with  the  jwor  girl  (rescued  from  the 
captivity  of  a  lunatiC'  asylum)  tln-ough  the  i)lant- 
ation  surrounding  the  grounds  attached  to  my 
villa,  and  in  another  minute  she  was  beneath 
my  roof. 

If  ever  woman  sincerely  repented  the  errors 
of  a  wayward  and  vain  girlhood  Etty  Tree  ex- 
perienced such  repentance.  After  she  had  been 
with  me  at  Fulhani  for  ten  days,  and  I  had 
studied  her  disposition  more  at  leisure,  I  saw 


OLIVE  D LAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


153 


tluit  one  of  ihc  dulies  iiicuuilH'Ut  uiioii  iiie  was 
to  clicer  her,  and  oiicouraKe  lior  not  to  take  too 
desi)onilont  a  view  of  her  y.xst  career.  I  found 
lier  literally  s-tceped  in  .self-aliasenicnt.  To  the 
agonizing  sh^nie  with  which  she  rellected  on  her 
heartless  desertion  of  lier  engagement  to  Julian 
Gower  was  a  terrifying  helief  that,  in  so  break- 
ing her  troth,  she  had  been  guilty  of  the  perju- 
ry most  odious  to  her  JNLiker  as  well  as  to  man. 
She  told  me  that,  for  herself,  she  had  no  wisli  in 
life  but  to  consume  her  days  in  prayer  and  jtious 
humiliation.  If  slie  could  l)ut  accomplish  one 
thing  she  would  with  contentment  lead  all  the 
rest  of  her  life  in  laborious  obscurity,  or  forth- 
with die,  imi)loring  the  Divine  mercy  to  pardon 
her  evil  behavior. 

The  one  thing  she  desired  to  accomplish  was 
/to  prove  the  fact  of  her  marriage  with  Arthur 
Fetersham.  She  did  not  want  to  bj  recognized 
bv  society  as  his  wife,  or  to  receive  a  crumb  of 
liis  prodigious  wealth.  But  what  she  did  want 
was  to  prove  that  the  ceremony  had  been  duly 
performed,  so  that  when  her  boy  grew  to  man- 
hood he  might  know  that  his  mother  (however 
vain  and  frivolous  and  false  slie  hail  been)  hail 
U2ver  been  guilty  of  that  for  whicli  there  is  no 
pardon  on  tliis  side  of  the  grave.  "Dear  Olive 
— dear,  dear  Olive,"  she  said,  "do  not  think  me 
seltish  in  this  wish,  or  imagine  that  for  any  less 
important  object  I  would  wish  to  render  your 
position  more  ])ainful  than  it  is.  But  a  mother's 
heart  beats  for  her  oftspring  before  all  other 
things.  Generous,  noble  as  you  are,  Olive,  if 
your  darling  boy  were  on  the  floor  there  before 
us,  singing  histily  and  talking  nonsense  to  his 
tovs,  you  would  value  your  position  as  the  iri/'e 
of  a  wicked  man  differently  from  what  you  now 
esteem  it  at,  and  eten  you  might  find  it  beyond 
your  power  to  aid  in  restoring  to  me  my  lost 
good  fame  (I  do  not  say  my  self-respect — that 
you  can  never  restore  to  me)."  And  my  recol- 
lectioTi  of  jjast  trials  told  me  how  truly  she  spoke 
in  saying  this. 

But  what  had  become  of  her  boy  ?  It  was  one 
of  the  first  questions  I  asked  as  she  and  I  were 
traveling  from  Berkshire  in  the  direction  of  town. 
"I  do  not  know  where  he  is,"  she  answered, 
bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears  at  the  mention  of 
her  boy,  "but  we  can  find  him." 

"How?" 

"Mr.  Arthur  Williams,  of  the  Carlton  Olub 
House,  knows.  You  imderstand  what  they  mean 
by  the  Carlton  Club  House?" 

"But  how  comes  he  to  know  about  your  boy?" 

"  He  was  the  gentleman  who  took  mo  from 
Lyons  to  London.  He  was  very,  very  kind  to 
me,  and  wanted  to  have  me  tell  him  all  the  par- 
ticulars of  my  sorrow,  but  I  would  not.  Oh,  he 
was  so  very  kind  to  me.  And  just  as  we  were 
parting  in  London,  he  said  to  me :  '  My  dear 
lady,  whatever  your  story  may  be,  I  am  sure  it 
is  only  one  of  wretchedness.  Your  sorrowful 
face  tells  me  of  your  goodness.'  '  No,  no,  Sir,' 
I  said.  '  I  am  not  a  good  woman.  I  have  done 
what  all  good  people  condemn  ;  but  I  have  not 
committed  any  wickedness  wherefore  the  mer- 
ciful sliould  shun  me.'  Then  he  asked  me,  '  Can 
I,  now  that  we  are  in  London,  render  you  any 
service?  Speak  frankly  to  me.'  It  was  with  a 
great  effort  that  I  said,  '  Sir,  great  peril  sur- 
rounds me  ;  and  yet  what  I  do  now,  I  must  do 
secretly.     There  is  a  person  in  this  mighty  and 


great  city  who  wants  to  rol)  me  of  my  child,  and 
a  terror  is  coming  over  me  that  my  boy  will  be 
torn  from  me.  It  is  a  wicked  man  who  wants 
to  get  possession  of  hiui.'  'Then,'  said  JNIr. 
Williams,  '  it  would  be  a  relief  to  you  if  I  jjro- 
vided  for  the  child's  security  for  a  few  weeks,  till 
you  know  what  you  ought  to  do  for  his  future 
comfort.'  I  said,  '  Indeed  it  would !'  And  he 
then  took  my  little  child  and  put  him  into  his 
carriage,  saying,  '.My  wife  will  take  good  care 
of  this  little  fellow  till  you  communicate  with  me. 
Here  is  my  card.'  And  I  took  his  card,  on  which 
was  engraved,  '  Mr.  Arthur  Williams,  Carlton 
Club.'  And  so  lie  took  my  child  away,  and  I 
have  never  seen  or  heard  of  either  of  them  since. 
After  I  left  you  on  the  day  of  my  second  visit  to 
Grosvenor  Square  I  was  as  one  distracted.  I 
walked  about  the  streets,  hour  after  hour,  unable 
even  to  think  what  I  should  do.  I  can't  say 
what  I  did  in  the  streets,  but  i  remember  that 
people  looked  round  at  me  with  sarprise.  I  went 
to  St.  Thomas's,  Kennington.  Of  course  I  re- 
membered nothing  of  the  neighborhood ;  but 
when  I  entered  the  church  I  knew  it  was  not 
the  church  in  which  I  was  married,  for  it  in  no 
way  whatever  resembled  the  church  to  ^\■hich 
Mr.  Petersham  took  me.  Oh,  dear  Father  in 
heaven,  v.hat  a  consternation  fell  u])on  me  !  I 
saw  that  Mr.  Petersham  had  married  me  in  some 
other  church,  and  had  falsely  told  me  that  the 
name  of  the  church  was  St.  Thomas's,  Kenning- 
ton. But  I  was  determined  to  find  out  the  right 
church.  So  day  after  day  I  walked  aljout  the 
streets  searching  for  churches,  and 'wherever  I 
found  a  church  I  sought  admittance  to  it,  to  see 
if  by  its  interior  1  could  recognize  it  as  the  church 
which  I  remembered  so  well.  But  I  knew  no- 
thing of  the  ways  about  London,  and  the  cnurcli- 
es  began  to  seem  all  so  much  like  each  other, 
and  often  I  entered  a  church  and  discovered  that 
I  had  already  inspected  it.  One  day  a  >.eadle 
said  to  me  angrily,  '  I  don't  believe,  youn^<  wo- 
man, nuich  as  you  look  like  a  lady,  that  you 
ought  to  be  walking  about  London  alone.  You've 
been  to  this  church  six  times  within  three  days, 
pestering  me  to  let  you  look  inside  it.  You  either 
are  after  something  wrong,  or  you  ought  to  be 
shut  up  in  a  mad-honse.'  Oh,  Olive,  this  fright- 
ened me  almost  into  nnulness.  He  clearly  thought 
me  insane,  and  a  fit  inmate  for  such  restraint  as 
I  had  escaped  from.  But  I  still  went  on  wan- 
dering over  the  streets  of  London  looking  out  for 
churches. 

"  Every  night  I  found  myself  lost  in  the  maze 
of  streets  and  squares,  and  then  I  used  to  get 
into  a  cab  and  be  driven  home  to  the  lodging  in 
Soho  which  I  had  hired.  But  at  last  my  money 
was  well-nigh  gone  that  the  kind  lady  gave  mc 
on  jiarting  with  me  at  Lyons;  yet  still  I  con- 
tinued my  perambulations,  fiiint,  and  weaiy,  and 
weeping,  and  hungry,  and  ftjarful  that  in  another 
hour  I  shoidd  go  crazed.  That  was  my  sad 
plight  when  one  day,  as  1  was  walking  over  a 
square  (in  what  part  of  London  1  know  not), 
images  of  all  the  faces  I  had  ever  seen  came  be- 
fore me.  JNIydear  grandfather,  and  Tibby,  and 
Major  Watchit,  and  Mr.  Petersham,  and  yon, 
and  Mr.  Williams,  and  my  little  darling  son,  sur- 
rounded me — flitting  to  and  fro  before  my  eyes. 
Then  I  remembered  the  parable  of  the  Prodigal 
Son,  and  how  in  his  dire  trouble  aiul  despair  he 
said,  '  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father,  and  will 


154 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


say  unto  liim.  Father,  I  have  sinned  against 
heaven,  and  before  thee,  and  am  no  more  worthy 
to  be  called  thy  son.'  And  I  caught  myself  think- 
ing of  Tibby,  and  that  I  would  go  back  to  her, 
liumbled  and  contrite,  and  say  to  her,  'I  have 
sinned  against  heaven,  and  before  thee,  and  am 
no  more  worthy  to  be  called  thy  sister.'  And  as 
I  repeated  these  words  to  myself,  hands  were  laid 
upon  me ;  and  struggling,  and  crying  out  for 
lielp  which  came  not,  I  was  captured,  and  forced 
into  a  carriage,  and  driven  off  to  a  house,  where 
I  saw  Mr.  Petersham  and  some  other  gentle- 
men." 

"Yes!"  I  said,  quickly;    "you  saw  him?" 

"Yes," she  sobbed,  as  she  continued  her  har- 
rowing reminiscences,  "  he  was  there,  and  I 
called  him  my  husband,  and  implored  him  to 
tell  me  the  church  in  whicli  we  were  married, 
as  it  was  not  St.  Thomas's,  Kcnnington.  I  told 
him  I  would  no  longer  trouble  him,  nor  claim 
position  before  the  world  as  his  wife,  but  that  I 
wanted  to  be  able  to  get  the  proofs  of  our  mar- 
riage, so  tliat  my  child  might  not  be  dishonored 
when  he  grew  up  to  manhood.  Then  two  of  the 
gentlemen  jnesent,  who  1  afterward  found  out 
were  jjliysicians,  asked  me  where  my  child  was, 
nnd  I  would  not  tell  them.  Then  my  husband 
lifted  u])  his  hands,  and  said  aloud  in  my  pres- 
ence, '  Poor,  poor  Watchit !  it  will  break  his 
heart  if  he  can  not  know  where  his  son  is.'  Tlien 
I  saw  the  fidl  purpose  and  wickedness  of  the  bad 
man.  I  knew  I  was  in  his  power.  Ho  I  closed 
my  lips  and  would  not  answer  a  single  question 
they  put  to  me.  And  then —  Y''ou  know  the 
rest.     I  was  taken  down  to  Berkshire." 

Thei'e  had  not  before  existed  in  my  mind  any 
doubt  that  Lord  Bytield  had  himse(ftakQn  the 
measures  which  led  to  her  incarceration  at  Belle 
Vue,  though  the  order  consigning  her  to  custody 
was  made  out  by  his  friend  ;  but  till  Ett}^  nuide 
this  revelation  to  me,  my  chain  of  evidence  was 
somewhat  defective.  Hitherto  I  had  rested  my 
contidence  on  the  revelations  /te  had  led  me  to 
make  to  Sir  Charles  Norton,  on  the  rjlances  be- 
tween Jitiii  and  Sir  Charles,  on  the  /'act  that  he 
had  once  before  consigned  her  to  medical  re- 
straint, and  on  the  motive  which  I  belicvcil  Itiin 
to  have  for  again  incarcerating  her.  But  now  I 
had  her  testimony,  which  of  course  I  could  easi- 
ly corroborate  l)y  applying  to  Dr.  Atkins  or  Dr. 
Teesdale,  that  Lord  Byfield  was  jiersonally  jires- 
ent  at  the  medical  examination  which  led  to  her 
comniitlal  to  Belle  Vue.  And  yet  Lord  Bylield 
had  assured  me  (at  a  time  when  he  jirofessed 
to  place  every  trust  and  confidence  in  me)  that 
he  did  not  know  where  Etty  Tree  was.  To 
■what  did  that  falsehood  point?  It  jiointcd  to 
(juih .' 

"And  Etty,"  I  said,  "}'ou  arc  quite  sure 
about  the  name  of  the  gentleman  who  has  charge 
of  your  child?  You  are  confident  it  is  'Jlr. 
Williams  of  the  Carlton  Club?'" 

"Quite,"  she  answered,  making  another  rev- 
elation tliat  greatly  affected  me;  "you  sec  I 
have  made  it  a  rule  never  to  keep  any  thing 
about  me  that  could  lead  to  a  discovery  of  that 
secr6t.  So  I  destroyed  his  card  ;  for  tliough  I 
was  treated  with  much  kindness  at  'Belle  Vue,' 
I  !iad  no  drawer,  or  writing-case,  or  j)laee  of  any 
kind  iliat  was  not  liable  to  be  searched  by  Dr. 
Ilankinsiin.  So  1  destroyed  Mr.  Williams's  card  ; 
but  in  order  that  1  might  keep  his  name  and  ad- 


dress fresh  in  my  mind,  I  every  day  wrote  them 
out  on  a  jiiece  of  paper,  and  then  immediately  I 
had  so  written  them  out,  I  used  to  tear  the  pa- 
per up  in  small  pieces  so  that  not  a  letter  could 
be  distinguished.  Sometimes  I  was  caught  so 
tearing  up  my  paper  with  a  cautious  air,  and  that 
sim])le  act  was  set  down  as  a  sign  of  my  insanity 
by  Dr.  Ilankinson  and  his  servants.  Y''ou  sec", 
you  sec,  Olive,  I  already  talk  of  that  fearful  life 
from  which  I  have  just  escaped  as  if  it  were  al- 
together of  the  past." 

After  my  return  with  Etty  to  Fulham,  almost 
my  first  work  was  to  institute  inquiries  about 
Mr.  Arthur  Williams  of  the  Carlton  Club.  The 
task  of  discovering  him  was  not  a  difficult  one, 
for  his  name  was  on  the  list  of  the  members  of 
the  Club,  to  the  frequenters  of  which  ])lace  he 
was  known  as  a  gentleman  of  ancient  family  and 
large  estates  in  W^ales.  Luckily  he  was  still  in 
London,  not  having  yet  left  town  for  his  coun- 
try seat.  Mr.  Castleton  called  upon  him  at  the 
Carlton  Club,  and  was  received  by  him  with  ap- 
propriate politeness  and  caution. 

"It  is  quite  true,"  said  Mr.  Williams,  after 
being  informed  by  Mr.  Castleton  of  the  pui-pose 
of  his  call,  "that  I  have  under  my  charge  a 
child — a  little  boy — confided  to  me  under  very 
jieculiar  circumstances  ;  but  when  I  took  charge 
of  the  child  I  promised  his  mother  that  I  would 
surrender  him  to  no  one  but  her.  I  made  this 
promise  at  a  time  when  I  was  quite  ignorant  of 
her  name  and  history  —  as  indeed  I  still  am. 
Such  being  the  state  of  the  case,  I  can  not  tell 
you  the  abode  of  the  child  till  I  am  requested  by 
her  personally  to  do  so.  Perhaps  you  would  not 
object  to  tell  me  the  lady's  address,  so  that  I  may 
call  u]ion  her." 

"He's  a  handsome,  gentlemanly  fellow,"  ob- 
served Sir.  Castleton  to  me  approvingly,  ^hen 
he  reported  to  me  the  above  speech,  "and  I  re- 
sjject  him  for  his  caution." 

Having  had  thus  far  such  good  reason  to  be 
satisfied  with  what  I  heard  of  his  position  and 
character,  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Williams,  inviting  him 
to  call  u]ion  me  at  Fulham  Villa,  where  he  would 
see  the  lady  to  whom  he  had  rendered  an  im- 
portant service.  The  result  of  this  missive  was, 
that  Mr.  Williams  saw  Etty  in  mj'  house,  and 
told  her  of  the  school  for  little  children  in  Brigh- 
ton, where  her  boy  was  thriving  admirably,  and 
having  achieved  a  reputation  for  being  the  clev- 
erest little  follow,  as  well  as  the  most  beautiful 
little  fellow,  that  his  governesses  had  ever  taught. 

"Sir,"  said  T'llty,  "I  wish  I  could  show  my 
gratitude  to  you  by  putting  before  you  all  the 
secrets  of  my  unhap])y  life.  But  at  present  I 
must  still  be  unknown  to  you.  I  trust,  how- 
ever, the  day  will  come  when  my  son  will  be 
able  to  thank  you  fitly  for  your  goodness  to  his 
mother." 

As  soon  ns  Mr.  Williams  had  taken  his  de- 
]iarture  I  kissed  her,  and  said,  "Now,  my  dar- 
ling, get  ready  for  a  journey  down  to  Brighton. 
We'll  be  posting  to  the  Sussex  clifts  this  very 
night." 

But  instead  of  cordially  concumng  in  this 
pro))osition  she  looked  u])  at  me  piteously,  and 
sliaking  her  head  said,  "No,  no!" 

"  Wliy,  Etty,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Tiuit  I  will  not  see  him,"  she  said,  quietly, 
"  till  I  can  tell  him  without  shame  who  his  father 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOllK. 


155 


'•  Bat  dear  one,"  I  answered,  "it  may  be  years 
and  years  ere  we  discover  the  proofs  of  your  mar- 
riage." 

"Possibly," 'she  replied,  dropping  her  head, 
"  we  shall  never  find  them.  And  in  that  case — 
I — will — nevei- — see  him." 

"Do  not  say  that,  Etty." 

"Olive,"  she  said,  turning  up  her  gentle  face, 
while  the  tears  rolled  down  it  fast,  "I  will  try 
to  win  Heaven's  mercy  for  my  sins  by  making 
myself  what  our  Lord  tells  us  we  ought  to  be. 
Hel|)  me  in  my  resolution  to  be  unselfish  like 
Tibby.  Don't  let  me  ever  again  shape  my  course 
by  tiie  rule  of  my  own  feelings.  Were  I  guided 
by  them  now  I  should  hasten  with  you  to  Brigh- 
ton, but  my  little  boy  is  now  old  enough  to  ask 
his  mother  if  he  has  a  father.  And  soon  he  will 
be  so  old  that,  when  he  discovers  his  mother 
dares  not  answer  this  question  ./''//y  and  tni/i/, 
he  will  feel  the  shame,  and  the  bitterness,  and 
the  degradation  of  dishonored  birth.  I  should 
give  myself  pleasure  by  discharging  all  the  du- 
ties of  a  mother  to  him,  but  I  should  cause  him 
ever-increasing  anguish.  No,  Olive,  since  your 
bounty  is  going  to  provide  for  his  education,  let 
him  hi  brought  up  as  an  orphan,  and  let  Mr. 
Castleton  be  his  guardian.  Let  him  be  called 
'Artiiur  ^Yilliams'  still,  until  we  can  show  him 
that  he  has  a  right  to  the  name  of  '  Arthur  Pe- 
tersham.' Don't  oppose  me  in  this,  Olive.  It 
is  not  an  idle  fancy,  but  a  duty.  It  is  part  of 
my  just  punishment.  What  I  have  hitherto  en- 
dured I  could  not  avoid.  Ljt  me  not  unworthi- 
ly shrink  from  the  rest  of  my  punishment,  which 
my  conscience  tells  me  I  ought  to  submit  to  vol- 
imtarily." 

And  when  she  had  said  this,  I  saw  by  the  fer- 
vor of  her  tearful  eyes  and  by  her  folded  hands 
that  she  was  secretly  addressing  herself  to  the 
Master  whom  she  served.     So  I  was  silent. 

Mothers  can  only  know  the  awful  extent  of  the 
self-sacrifice  which  chastened,  penitent,  gentle 
Etty  resolved  to  make.  It  was  a  sacrifice  of  the 
sweetest  joys  of  human  affection — a  sacrifice  re- 
newed each  day  for  years  and  j-ears.  And  she 
made  it  in  love  for  her  son,  so  that  he  might 
never  know  the  anguish  of  looking  on  a  shamed 
mo:her.  Shall  she  not  win  Heaven's  mercy — 
quia  multuin  amacit? 

So  little  Arthur  was  still  called  Arthur  Will- 
iams, and  was  educated  as  an  orphan  child — first 
at  Brighton,  and  afterward  at  Dr.  Renter's  school 
on  Blacklieath  ;  Mr.  Castleton  discharging  to- 
ward him  all  the  ofiices  of  a  cold  and  reserved 
guardian. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE    USE    OF    THE    TATTING. 

Although  Etty  knew  of  her  sister's  abode 
and  residence  in  Marchioness  Street,  she  did  not 
express  a  desire  to  visit  her ;  and  I,  instead  of 
suggesting  such  a  step,  waitad  for  a  spontane- 
ous manifestation  of  her  wishes.  It  was  not  till 
she  had  been  an  inmate  of  Fulham  Villa  for 
some  weeks  that  she  gave  me  any  intimation  of 
her  fe;;lings  on  the  subject ;  and  then  I  learned 
that  considerations  akin  to  those  whrch  kept  her 
away  from  her  child  made  her  shrink  from  the 
thought  of  asking  for  Tibby's  embrace  while  a 
cloud  of  uncertainty  hung  over  her  fame. 


"Let  me  wait,  Olive,"  she  said,  "for  a  little 
while,  rerhajjs  even  tliis  year  nuiy  bring  a  suc- 
cessful conclusion  to  your  labors." 

The  topic  having  been  once  entered  uj)on  she 
returned  to  it  i'requently.  She  told  me  the  his- 
tory of  Tibby's  childhood — her  close  companion- 
ship with  Julian  Gower — her  strong  affection 
(even  to  love)  for  him — Julian's  ignorance  as  to 
the  state  of  her  feelings  for  him — her  deep  gloom 
of  disappointment  bravely  struggled  against,  and 
her  inability  to  conceal  on  one  solitary  occasion 
from  a  sister's  eye  the  secret  of  her  heart.  In- 
deed, she  told  me  nearly  every  thing  concerning 
the  early  relations  of  Julian  and  her  sister  which 
the  reader  of  this  volume  is  familiar  with.  "  Oh, 
Olive,"  she  said  to  me,  "when  1  took  my  wick- 
ed departure  from  Laughton  I  sustained  myself 
with  a  hope  that  when  I  became  the  acknowl- 
edged wife  of  Mr.  Petersham,  Julian,  in  his  gen- 
erosity— which  is  beyond  that  of  all  other  gen- 
erous men — might  so  far  pardon  me  as  not  to 
consider  my  baseness  as  a  reason  why  he  should 
not  love  Tibby,  who  had  in  silence  and  in  sorrow 
loved  him  for  so  long.  That  hope  was  one  of 
the  fair  visions  by  which  Satan  tem])ted  me  from 
the  ]5ath  of  duty,  at  moments  when  the  allure- 
ments of  ])romised  wealth  and  grandeur  had  less 
infiuence  on  my  foolish  mind." 

"Ettv,"I  said,  "why  should  not  vour  hope 
still  be  fulfilled?" 

"Do  not  mock  me,  Olive,"  she  answered,  so 
pitifully  that  I  held  back  the  thought  which  was 
wandering  from  my  lips. 

But  that  thought  returned  to  me  again  and 
again  ;  and  after  an  interval  of  montlis  I  took  a 
fit  ojijiortunity  to  clothe  it  in  words  and  put  it 
before  her. 

"Etty,  I  will  not  mock  you,  but  will  speak 
most  gravely  to  you,"  I  said  to  her  one  fine 
morning  in  the  first  spring  of  her  eight  years' 
residence  at  Fulham.  "Let  me  cherish  a  ro- 
mantic dream  and  communicate  it  to  you ;  for 
there  is  a  charm  about  my  life  that  makes  my 
romantic  dreams  come  true.  I  believe  that  Tib- 
by may  even  yet  become  the  wife  of  Julian 
Gower.  He  is  rich,  honored,  and  sun-ounded 
by  friends.  Yet  he  does  not  marry.  How  is 
this  ?  It  is  more  than  seven  years  since  he  met 
with  a  disappointment  in  your  affections — a  pe- 
riod of  time  long  enough  for  such  a  man  to  out- 
live such  a  sorrow  in.  He  is  not  embittered — 
that  I  know ;  for  I  have  received  especial  tidings 
of  him,  his  character,  and  his  proceedings,  sev- 
eral times  within  the  last  twelve  months  Surely 
such  a  man  as  he  is  must  yearn  for  the  delights 
of  home — the  afl'ection  and  adoration  of  wife  and 
children.  You,  in  your  farewell  letter  to  him, 
told  him  that  our  good,  heroic,  self-sacrificing 
Tibby  had  always  loved  him  ardently.  Such  a 
comnumication,  made  to  such  a  man,  was  seed 
that  must  bear  fruit.  Do  you  not  think  that  the 
explanation  of  his  not  having  ere  this  married  is 
that  he  waits,  hojnng  one  day  to  find  out  Tibby 
and  foi'ce  her  to  be  his  wife  ?  Etty,  let  me  take 
some  means  to  inform  him  where  Tibby  is,  and 
there  will  be  good  hope  for  the  fulfillment  of 
your  dream  and  mine." 

She  shuddered  as  she  said,  "That  could  never 
be,  so  long  as  there  was  any  uncertainty  sur- 
rounding my  career.  If  I  were  dead,  what  we 
ho])o  might  come  to  pass — that  is  to  say,  if  they 
knew  that  I  were  dead." 


156 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOIIK. 


She  had  of  her  own  accord  gone  to  the  very 
point  which  had  embarrassed  me  in  my  schcm- 
ings,  but  whicii  I  could  not  myself  have  directed 
her  attention  to. 

We  were  silent  for  several  minutes — she  lying 
Ml  a  sofa  in  deep,  brown  study,  and  I,  that  my 
[)resence  might  not  disturb  licr  meditations,  con- 
tinuing to  embroider  a  jiicce  of  muslin. 

"  Olive,"  she  said  at  last,  rising  from  the  sofa 
and  coming  close  up  to  me,  and  looking  with  her 
earnest  violet  cj'es  into  the  secrets  of  my  heart, 
"I  know  your  thought.  It  is  a  right  one  and  a 
glorious  one.  Cause  Julian  and  Tibby  to  be- 
lieve that  I  am  dead.  You  can  manage  it,  for 
you  have  JNIr.  Castleton  and  Ur.  Clarges,  and 
tlieir  strange,  mysterious  agents  to  carry  out 
your  wishes.  Let  them  think  that  I  am  dead. 
They  will  mourn  for  me,  and  bury  me  tenderly 
in  their  sweetest  imaginations ;  and  after  the 
lapse  of  one  or  two  years  they  will  look  out  on 
life  a.s  though  I  were  not.  Do  this.  Dear,  dar- 
ling Olive,  do  this!" 

iShe  was  earnest  in  her  entreaty  at  the  time ; 
and  so  earnest  was  she  after  the  excitement  of 
the  first  consideration  of  tlie  scheme,  that  she 
again  and  again,  in  the  course  of  the  next  fort- 
night, reverted  to  our  vaguel3'-coneeived  plan, 
and  urged  me  to  act  promptly. 

The  next  thing  I  did  was  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Castleton,  who,  after  some  ten  days  of  consid- 
eration, told  me  that  I  must  leave  all  tlie  details 
of  a  certain  project  he  had  framed  to  him,  and 
must  do  exactly  what  he  bade  me.  He  direct- 
ed nie  to  take  an  occasion  to  accost  Tibby  Tree, 
without  letting  her  imagine  who  I  was,  and  tell 
her  a  story  of  a  wicked  girl's  life  in  such  a  man- 
ner that  Tibby  should  believe  she  was  listening 
to  the  narrative  of  her  own  sister's  shame.  He 
told  me  the  tale  that  I  was  to  repeat  to  the  hos- 
pital matron;  and  when  he  had  given  me  exact 
instructions  how  I  was  to  conduct  myself  on  the 
occasion  of  addressing  her,  he  too  prepared  to 
take  his  leave  of  me,  saying,  "  And  now  I  must 
devise  a  plan  for  your  meeting  her." 

"You  must  remember,  Mr.  Castleton,"  I  said, 
"I  have  never  yet  even  seen  her,  and  am  alto- 
gether ignorant  of  her  personal  appearance,  save 
from  your  description  and  Etty's." 

"True,"  he  answered,  "you  must  acquaint 
yourself  with  her  personal  appearance.  Go  next 
Sunday  evening  to  i\Iarchioness  Street,  and  walk 
lip  and  down  the  street  till  you  see  a  little  pale 
Woman  sitting  in  the  bow-window  of  'Grace 
Temple.'  Miss  Tree  is  in  the  habit  of  sitting 
every  Sunday  evening  in  that  window.  You 
will  not  miss  her." 

Acting  on  Mr. Castlcton's  orders,  I  drove  into 
London  on  the  following  Sunday  evening,  and 
L'aving  my  carriage  at  thc^  corner  of  Gordon 
Square  to  wait  till  my  return,  I  went  to  Mar- 
chioness Street;  and  tiie  very  first  time  I  walk- 
ed ilown  the  street  and  looked  nj)  at  the  hos- 
]iital,  I  saw,  sitting  at  the  o])en  bow-window,  a 
lady,  wiiom  I  recogniz  d  iniuKHliaJely  as  Tihby 
Tree,  from  the  verbal  descriptions  I  had  had  of 
lier  personal  aspect.  She  was  very  ])aie,  and 
looked  in  wretchedly  ill  hcaltii.  I  passed  b.'ftU'C 
the  iiospital  more  than  onrc;  and  each  time  I 
I)as-c;d  I  scanned  her  face — so  that  I  was  sure 
I  siioidd  know  it  again  any  wliere.  And  ere  I 
r.'tiirii .d  lo  Fulham  that  night,  F  drove  to  Mr. 
Castlcton's  private  house,  autl  told  hini  that  my 


expedition  to  Marchioness  Street  had  proved 
successfLd. 

A  few  mornings  afterward  Jilr.  Castleton  made 
his  appearance  at  my  breakfast- ftible  at  Fulliam, 
and  s;ud,  "Miss  Blake,  I  have  business  for  you 
to  attend  to  to-day.  Miss  Tree  will  in  all  jn'ob- 
ability  be  found  walking  in  Hyde  Bark  some- 
where near  Apsley  House  this  very  afternoon. 
You  must  meet  her  there." 

"How  do  you  know  she  will  be  there?"  I 
asked. 

"Mr.  Rover,  the  house-surgeon  of  the  Sick 
Children's  Hosjjital,  who  is  a  young  friend  and 
a  family  connection  of  mine,  has  induced  her  to 
]jromise  that  she  will  \\alk  in  Hyde  Bark  for  a 
little  change,"  answered  Mr.  Castleton,  signifi- 
cantly. 

"But  are  you  sure  that  she  will  be  near  Aps- 
ley House?" 

Mr.  Castleton  smiled  good-naturedly  as  he  an- 
swered, "  She  told  Mr.  Kover  that  if  she  M-cnt  to 
the  Bark  she  should  go  straight  to  the  Duke  of 
AVellington's  house  and  admire  it.  Now,  no 
more  questions,  my  inquisitive  client.  The  com- 
l)act  between  us  in  tliis  matter  is,  thatil  am  to 
order,  and  you  are  to  obei/.'' 

And  I  did  obey  him  implicitly.  I  went  into 
Hyde  Bark;  and,  after  walking  about  for  a 
couple  of  hours,  I  encountered  the  person  I 
sought ;  and  I  told  her  that  story  which  Mr. 
Castleton  had  put  into  my  lips ;  and  she  thought 
that  Etty  was  a  wicked  girl,  sinking  down  lower 
and  lower  in  the  abysses  of  crime.  So  moved 
was  she  by  my  words  that  she  fointed  in  my  arms; 
and  I  conveyed  her  home  to  Marchioness  Street 
in  my  carriage,  and  ere  she  had  fully  returned 
to  consciousness  I  left  her  with  the  nurses  of  the 
hospital  and  departed — at  the  same  time  glad 
and  sorrowful  that  I  had  accomplished  my  task 
so  effectually. 

About  three  months  after  that  event  Mr.  Cas- 
tleton called  on  me  and  said,  "Can  you  get  me 
a  piece  of  lace,  or  fancy-work  of  any  kind,  made 
by  Miss  Tabitha  Tree?  Mrs.  Gurley  told  me 
that  Miss  Tree  used  to  be  very  clever  in  the  pro- 
duction of  tatting-embroidery,  and  that  she  made 
some  of  a  very  jjcculiar  kind,  called  'Cluster- 
tatting,'  and  gave  it  to  her  sister.  Ask  I\Iiss 
Annette  if  she  has  any  of  that  lace.  If  she  has 
any  she  must  give  it  to  me." 

It  so  hajipened  that  Etty  had  some  of  the  veiy 
same  "Cluster-tatting"  about  which  Mr.  Cas- 
tleton inquired.  It  was  invented  as  well  as 
worked  by  her  sister,  and  Ett}'  had  it  on  a  gar- 
ment wliich  she  rarely  wore.  At  my  request, 
therefore,  she  picked  it  off  the  article  of  dress, 
and  I  gave  it  to  Mr.  Castleton. 

"What  do  you  want  it  for?"'  I  asked  of  him. 

"Miss  Blake,"  he  answered,  passionately, 
stuffing  the  beautiful  lace  into  liis  pocket,  "I 
would  rather  cut  off  my  right  hand  than  tell  you 
at  ])resent." 

Such  excitement  was  so  nnnsual  with  him  that 
it  both  surprised  and  frightened  me. 

It  was  not  till  after  the  exi)iration  of  years  th{it 
I  learned  wliat  a  terrible  nse  Mr.  Castleton  had 
made  of  that  tatting. 

In  the  following  January,  after  the  event  just 
narrated,  Mr.  Castleton  said  to  me,  "Miss  Ta- 
liithaTree  not  only  believes  that  her  sister  and 
her  sister's  child  arc  dead,  but  she  has  erected  a 
memorial  to  her  in  Highgate  Cemetery.     You 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOllK. 


157 


had  better  not  tell   your  friend  Miss  Annette 
tills." 

"Surely  I  ^Yill  not,''  I  said,  trembling. 
"How  have  'you  succeeded  in  efl'ectinK  this, 
IMr.  Castleton?"'  I  then  inquired. 

And  he  again  answered  nie  passionately,  "  I 
will  not  tell  you.  I  would  rather  cut  off  my 
riglit  hand  than  tell  you  at  present." 
So  I  asked  him  no  more  questions. 
"  Eut,"  he  added,  when  he  had  composed 
himself,  "here  is  an  engraving  of  the  memorial 
erected  by  Miss  Tree,  which  you  may  look  at." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  little 
hand-bill  book  containing  sketches  of  monu- 
ments and  mural  devices,  with  the  prices  of  them 
underneath;  and  No.  1  of  the  series  of  engrav- 
ings was  one  of  Etty's  memorial  stone,  thus  in- 
scribed : 

In  Memory  of 

E  T  T  Y    TREE, 

and  of 

All  who  loved  her  and  ui'e  no  more, 

This  Stone 

is  erected  by 

T  I  u  i;  Y    T  u  E  E. 

"This  is  a  prospectus  of  a  mural  sculptor," 
said  I,  referring  to  the  hand-bill  book. 

"Exactly,"  said  Mr.  Castleton;  "the  mural 
sculptor  who  erect*!  the  memorial  had,  at  my 
suggestion,  prepared  a  few  of  these  books,  and  I 
mean  to-night  to  post  one  of  them  to  Mr.  Gow- 
cr.  The  sketch  of  memorial  No.  1  will  meet  his 
eye  directly  he  opens  the  letter." 

"A  capital  way  to  inform  him  of  the  fact." 

"lie  will  imagine  that  it  comes  to  him  sent 
by  the  sculptor  as  an  advertisement  in  the  ordi- 
nary way  of  business.  I  know  something  of  i\Ir. 
Gower's  character ;  and  if  I  am  not  mistaken  in 
him,  he  will,  on  seeing  the  sketch,  jiay  a  visit  to 
llighgate,  and,  as  he  lives  in  that  neighborhood, 
will  frequently  repeat  his  visit.  Miss  Tabitha 
Tree  will  also  frequently  go  there  ;  and  possibly, 
if  we  let  them  alone,  they  may  one  day  encount- 
er each  other  in  the  burial-ground." 

In  due  course  Mr.  Castleton's  prediction  was 
verified  ;  for  by  the  October  next  to  the  one  suc- 
ceeding the  date  when  this  intelligence  was  com- 
municated to  me  Tibby  and  Julian  met  close  to 
the  memorial  stone,  and  from  that  time  they  re- 
newed their  old  intimacy  with  each  other. 

That  Julian  Gower  was  in  the  habit  of  call- 
ing on  Tibby  in  the  Marchioness  Street  Hospi- 
tal Mr  Castleton  duly  informed  me  and  Etty. 
All  their  movements  were  known  to  us,  for  my 
vigilant  lawyer  kept  close  watch  on  them  through 
his  agents ;  and  when,  at\er  the  expiration  of 
two  years  from  the  meeting  of  the  two  old  friends 
and  playmates  in  the  llighgate  burial-ground, 
Mr.  Gower  bought  "The  Cedars," and  prepared 
to  leave  his  bachelor  residence  at  Ilampstead, 
wc  knew  that  a  wedding  was  approaching. 

And  when  Tibby  and  Julian  were  at  last  mar- 
ried, I  and  Etty,  concealed  behind  a  screen,  wore 
among  the  rejoicing  nudiitudo  that  thronged  the 
church ;  and  we  knelt  down  together,  and  i-e- 
peated  after  the  clergyman  the  beautiful  collect 
of  the  Church  Service  r  "O  merciful  Lord  and 
Heavenly  Father,  by  whose  gracious  gift  man- 
kind is  increased ;  We  beseech  thee,  assist  with 
thy  blessing  these  two  persons,  that  they  may  be 
fruitful  in  })rocrcation  of  children,  and  also  live 


together  so  long  in  godly  love  and  honesty,  that 
they  may  see  their  children  christianly  and  vir- 
tuously brought  up  to  thy  praise  and  honor, 
through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord,     yl/rtcn." 

At  the  close  of  that  day,  which  we  spent  in 
gladni'ss  at  Fulham  Villa,  Mr.  Castleton  com- 
municated to  me,  and  Dr.  Clarges,  and  Etty  the 
awful  use  that  he  had  made  of  the  "cluster-tat- 
ting." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

FULIIAir,    MONACO,    AND    ELSEWHERE. 

Frch  the  date  of  Etty's  liberation  from  "Belle 
Vue"  till  I  was  able  to  restore  her  with  an  un- 
tarnished reputation  to  her  sister  eight  years  and 
a  few  weeks  intervened  ;  during  all  which  period 
she  resided  at  Fulham  Villa — never  going  be- 
yond the  boundary  of  my  pleasure-grounds  save 
when  she  went  into  the  village  on  missions  of 
charity  (which  were  frequent),  or  attended  Di- 
vine service  in  the  parish  church  (where  she  was 
a  regular  worshiper),  or  when  on  one  or  two  very 
rare  occasions  (such,  for  instance,  asTibby's  mar- 
riage) she  had  an  esjiecial  reason  for  quitting 
her  retreat  for  a  short  time.  Wc  left  Bo-kshire 
with  an  understanding  that  Etty  should  visit 
"  Belle  Vue"  once  a  year,  and  remain  for  a  few 
nights  within  the  walls  of  the  Asylum,  so  that 
Dr.  Hankinson  might  be  able  with  an  easy  con- 
science to  regard  her  as  still  upon  the  list  of  his 
patients.  But  Dr.  Clarges  made  certain  fresh 
representations  to  the  proprietor  of  "Belle 
Vue,"  which  induced  him  voluntarily  to  relieve 
Etty  from  the  vexatious  obligation  to  pay  the 
Asylum  periodic  visits.  She  was,  therefore,  a 
continual  inmate  of  my  house,  and  a  very  gen- 
tle, cjuiet,  loving,  grateful  inmate  we  all  found 
her.  Aunt  Wilby  (^as  her  health  brote  up  be- 
fore the  slow  advances  of  old  age)  found  in  her 
an  assiduous  and  devoted  nurse.  Jly  father's 
faithful  old  servants  became  strongly  attached  to 
her ;  and  I  (as  I  have  already  said)  loved  her 
as  a  sister.  I  loved  her  as  1  had  never  before 
loved  any  woman ! 

We  called  her  by  her  maiden  name — the  serv- 
ants speaking  of  her  as  Miss  Tree,  Dr.  Clarges 
and  Aunt  Wilby  addressing  her  as  Annetie,  arid 
I  employing  for  ordinary  use  in  my  close  inter- 
course Avith  her  the  endearing  diminutive  of 
"Etty,"  by  which  she  was  known  in  her  girl- 
hood. 

Hers  was  a  sad  life  at  Fulham ;  and  I  knew 
it  was  so,  though  she  made  it  one  of  her  first 
duties  to  conceal  her  sadness  from  me,  and  to 
appear  both  cheerful  to  her  companions  and 
contented  in  her  retirement.  Never  did  ex- 
clamation of  fretful  re])ining  or  impatience  es- 
ca])e  her  lips.  Week  after  week,  when,  on  sum- 
ming up  the  results  of  the  ])revious  six  days'  la- 
lior,  I  had  to  say,  "Not  one  step  further  made!" 
.';!ij  oidy  bowed  her  head  submissively,  and  gave 
me  soTuo  affecting  ])roofs  of  her  gratitude  or  res- 
ignation. "Never  mind — (lod  will  do  it  in  his 
own  good  time  I"  "Oh,  Olive,  may  the  peace 
thai  jiasscth  all  understanding  be  your  reward!" 
Siu'h  sjiccchcs  as  these  she  v.ould  utter  in  a  soft, 
silver  voice ;  and  then  she  would  put  her  delicate 
arm  over  my  shoulders  and  kiss  me. 

Hei"  only  amusement  was  to  play  solemn  sa- 
cred music  ui)on  the  organ,  which  formed  a  i)art 


158 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


of  the  furniture  of  my  library.  She  took  sucli 
deep  iind  manifest  pleasure  in  niusie  that  I  en- 
deavored to  prevail  npon  her  to  accom]jany  mc 
to  the  public  performances  of  "  oratorios"  during 
the  season.  But  my  jjroposal  that  she  should 
indulge  herself  with  even  this  grave  diversion 
caused  her  so  much  agitation  and  pain  that  I 
did  not  ever  renew  it.  "No,  no,  Olive,"  she 
said,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  go  into  the  world  ;  your 
organ  gives  my  thoughts  all  the  melody  they  re- 
quire. In  your  lovely  garden  I  have  all  the  rec- 
reation I  wish  for.  I  do  not  wish  ever  to  go  be- 
yond the  boundaries  of  Eulham  till  it  shall  jjlease 
God  to  take  away  my  shame."  And  so  Etty 
lived  with  me  for  eight  long  years  and  some- 
thing more,  leading  as  quiet,  and  secluded,  and 
penitential  a  life  as  ever  any  religious  lady  lived 
in  the  calm,  still  ages  that  have  left  us  only  the 
tradition  of  their  beauty. 

But  what  stejjs  was  I  taking  to  obtain  proofs 
of  Etty's  marriage  ?  My  first  proceeding  (as  the 
reader  doubtless  sup])Oses)  was  to  do  that  sys- 
tematically which  Etty,  scared,  terrified,  and 
almost  crazed,  attempted  to  accomplish  by  lier 
own  unaided  weakness  years  before.  I  had  all 
the  marriage  registers  of  London  systematically 
examined.  This  was  a  work  that  consumed 
time,  labor,  and  money;  but  it  Avas  accom- 
plished. There  was  not  a  single  marriage  regis- 
ter in  London  from  which  I  failed  to  obtain  ac- 
curate copies  of  all  the  records  of  marriages  en- 
tered in  it  during  the  month.in  which  Etty  stated 
she  was  married;  but  the  labor  was  all  in  vain. 
The  record  of  a  marriage  between  Arthur  Peter- 
sham and  Annette  Tree  could  not  be  found.  How 
■was  this  to  be  accounted  for?  My  trusty  and 
most  reliable  agents  (procured  for  me  by  Mr. 
Castleton)  were  ordered  to  report  minutely,  in 
writing,  the  exact  state  of  the  registei^s  from 
which  the  copies  of  registrations  were  made ; 
and  I  had  not  had  one  intimation  that  a  register 
had  been  found  showing  any  signs  of  mutilation, 
or  obliteration,  or  alteixition  of  any  kind.  The 
explanation,  therefore,  could  not  be  that  one  of 
the  London  registers  had  been  tampered  with. 
Again,  it  could  not  be  that  Etty  was  mistaken 
as  to  the  month  in  which  she  was  married,  for 
all  her  statements  coincided  with  the  information 
obtained  by  Mr.  Castleton  in  the  "corn  coun- 
try." Between  her  flight  from  Laughton  and 
her  marriage  only  one  entire  niglit  had  clajjsed. 
Of  this  she  was  sure.  Mr.  Castleton  had  learned 
from  jNIr.  Gurley  the  exact  date  of  her  flight, 
and  it  was  the  same  as  that  given  by  herself. 
It  was  an  unreasonable  excess  of  caution,  and  an 
extravagant  determination  to  do  my  work  thor- 
oughly, that  made  me  order  my  agents  to  co])y 
out  the  entries  of  all  the  marriages  registered  in 
the  entire  month  of  October,  IS — . 

"Mr.  Castleton,"  I  said,  brought  to  a  stand- 
still, "  what  does  this  mean  ?" 

"It  means,"  he  answei-ed,  " that  any  how  the 
young  ])erson  was  not  married  in  London." 

The  tone  in  which  he  said  this  made  mc  re- 
spond sharply,  "Surely,  Mr.  Castleton,  aftei-  all 
that  we  have  discovered,  you  don't  doubt  that 
Etty  was  married?" 

"  She  7)1(11/  have  been  married,"  the  lawyer  an- 
swered, sententiously.  "Your  first  question  re- 
ferred to  the  state  of  the  London  registers,  and 
my  answer  to  that  question  was,  '  the  young 
person  was  not  married  in  London.' " 


"Surely  she  was  not  married  in  another  city, 
and  led  by  misrepresentation  to  believe  that  it 
was  London." 

"Such  mai/  have  been  the  case,"  said  Mr. 
Castleton,  dryly,  after  a  minute's  consideration. 
"  Any  how,  the  suggestion  is  ingenious.  When 
Sir  George  Watchit  took  her  from  Laughton  she 
had  literally  never  seen  a  larger  town  than  that 
l)etty  rotten  borough.  She  was  put  into  a  car- 
riage and  conveyed  away  jjost-haste  in  the  hours 
of  darkness.  To  avoid  observation,  as  soon  as 
the  sun  rose  and  it  became  light  the  blinds  of 
the  carriage  were  drawn  down,  so  that  she  could 
see  nothing  of  the  country  through  wliicli  she 
passed.  By  her  own  account  it  was  quite  a  dark 
evening,  with  the  lamps  all  alight,  when  she  en- 
tered London.  A  young  country  girl,  so  con- 
veyed to  a  provincial  city,  and  assured  that  she 
was  jjassing  through  the  streets  of  an  obscure 
quarter  of  London,  would  of  course  believe  the 
statement.  Then  every  circumstance  of  her  ex- 
liericnccs  of  the  night  be  fore,  and  on  the  morn- 
ing oj'  her  marriage,  favors  the  hypothesis  you 
have  just  put  forth.  The  necessity  of  avoiding 
]>ub]icity  (I  am  using  her  own  statement)  was 
ui-gcd  upon  her  by  Sir  George  Watchit  as  a  rea- 
son why  she  should  retire  to  rest  immediately  on 
arriving  at  the  hotel,  and  decline  the  assistance 
of  the  chamber-maid  of  the  hotel  in  making  her 
toilet  for  the  night.  The  ncftct  morning,  when 
she  rose  and  .came  into  the  private  sitting-room 
for  breakfast,  she  was  surprised  at  finding  the 
blinds  of  the  room  drawn  down  ;  whereupon  Sir 
George  Watchit  explained  to  her  that  the  win- 
dows looked  i;pon  a  street,  that  curious  eyes  were 
continually  fixed  upon  hotel  windows,  and  that 
therefore,,  to  avoid  publicity,  he  had  pulled  down 
the  blinds.  After  breakfast  she  was  put  into  a 
close  carriage,  was  conveyed  to  a  church  hard 
by,  w-as  married  to  her  husband  by  an  aged  cler- 
gyman, was  taken  back  to  the  carriage,  and, 
without  being  allowed  to  return  to  the  hotel 
where  she  slept,  was  carried  straight  oflF  to  the 
sea-side,  where  she  was  taken  on  board  Mr. 
Petersham's  yacht  and  conveyed  abroad.  On 
her  journey  trom  the  church  to  the  sea-coast 
the  same  excessive  jirccaution  was  taken  (for  in- 
stance, that  of  keeping  the  carriage-blinds  down) 
to  avoid  publicity,  or  to  prevent  the  yotmg  person 
so  aJ)stracted  from  taking  any  notes  of  the  road 
icldch  she  icas  traveling.^' 

'  •  Surely, "  I  said,  enthusiastically,  ' '  that  is 
how  it  viust  have  been  !" 

"No,  no,"  answered  Mr.  Castleton,  coolly, 
smiling  as  he  spoke.  "Don't  be  so  emphatic. 
I  see  no  must  in  the  matter,  but  only  a  little  may. 
That's  all.  I  say  that  your  hypothesis  is  very 
ingenious,  but  it  stands  sorely  in  need  of  proof. 
Back  it  up  with  evidence,  and  I  will  say  you  are 
a  very  clever  woman,  and  ought  to  be  called  to 
the  bar." 

When  Mr.  Castleton  left  me  I  went  to  Etty 
and  told  her  my  new  hy])Othesis,  and  asked  her 
if  she  could  recall  any  circumstance  that  would 
show  it  to  be  untenable. 

She  was  silent  for  several  minutes,  thinking 
over  all  the  case  I  ]iut  before  her.  At  last  she 
raised  her  face  frtim  her  two  hands,  in  which 
she  had  laid  it  to  rest,  and  with  that  singular 
expression  in  her  violet  eyes  which  always  show- 
ed when  she  was  greatly  moved,  she  said  to  me, 
"Oh,  Olive!  you  have  taken  a  weight  <ilT  my 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


159 


heart !  For  weeks  past,  and  nioutlis,  as  report 
after  report  came  in,  sliowing  that  the  record  of 
my  marriage  could  not  be  found  in  the  London 
registers,  I  have  been  atHicted  with  a  terrible 
imagination." 

"Wiiat  was  it?" 

"That  Mr.  Petersham  had  given  me  only  a 
mock  marriage,  such  as  novels  tell  about ;  that 
he  had  taken  me  to  a  building  which  was  only 
made  to  appear  like  a  church,  where  the  clergy- 
man was  only  an  impostor  dressed  up  to  act  a 
part,  and  where  the  register  was  only  a  fictitious 
imitation  of  a  register." 

"iMy  dearest  girl,"  I  answered,  laughing, 
"what  a  childish  notion!  That  is  just  the 
kind  of  villainy  Lord  Byfield,  rich  and  power- 
ful as  he  is,  could  not  have  perpetrated  toward 
you.  He  could  not  have  built  his  sham  church 
without  attracting  attention ;  and  in  all  his  ai- 
rangements  secrecy  has  been  his  one  grand  ob- 
ject. Wealth,  enormous  wealth,  Etty,  can  buy 
almost  any  thing  more  readily  than  it  can  buy 
privacy.  But  what  do  you  say  to  my  hypoth- 
esis ?" 

"Why,  that  it  is  the  true  one,"  Etty  an- 
swered, kissing  me  and  (a  thing  she  very  rarely 
did)  weeping  plentifully. 

I  determined  to  lose  no  time  in  proving  it  a 
correct  one. 

I  forthwith  caused  my  agents  to  do  for  the  pro- 
vincial cities  what  they  had  already  done  in  Lon- 
don. One  after  another  I  visited  all  the  large 
towns  of  England  that  could  have  been  reached 
by  Etty  and  Major  Watchit,  as  they  posted  from 
"the  corn  country,"  in  the  time  that  Etty  well 
remembered  they  were  upon  the  road.  The 
time  so  consumed  was  just  about  the  time  which 
it  took  to  post  full  speed  from  London  to  the 
corn  country;  and  Etty  and  Major  Watchit  had 
traveled  the  entire  distance  of  their  journey  with- 
out stopping  to  rest  on  the  road.  If,  therefore, 
the  fraud  I  suspected  had  been  really  practiced 
upon  Etty,  the  conspirators  had  been  prudent 
enough  to  make  the  time  of  the  journey  actual- 
ly taken  correspond  with  the  time  consumed  by 
the  journey  that  would  have  been  taken  suppos- 
ing they  had  veritably  made  London  the  scene 
of  the  marriage. 

At  first,  therefore,  I  sent  my  agents  to  the 
large  towns  that  lay  about  as  far  from  "the 
corn  country"  as  London  did.  But  such  towns 
were  searched  unavailingly.  I,  of  course,  dai-ed 
not  advertise  in  the  papers  for  the  certificate  I 
required,  otFering  a  reward  to  the  parish  clerk 
who  shovdd  send  me  a  copy  of  it ,  for  such  a 
step  would  have  attracted  the  attention  of  Lord 
Byfield.  So  I  was  compelled  to  work  slowly 
and  at  great  expense,  by  paid  copyists  who  were 
ordered  to  get  copies  of  all  the  registrations,  and 
were  ignorant  of  the  particular  registration  which 
it  was  my  object  to  discover. 

When  my  agents  had  visited  the  great  towns 
already  indicated  in  vain,  they  were  sent  to 
smaller  ones ;  for  I  reflected  that  even  an  humble 
country  town  might  be  made  to  appear  a  very 
great  place  to  an  unsophisticated  country  child 
like  Etty,  who  had  never  seen  a  larger  town 
than  Laughton.  Bent  upon  deluding  her  as  to 
the  magnitude  of  the  place  to  which  she  was 
taken  in  a  close  carriage.  Major  Watchit  might 
have  caused  tlie  post-boys  to  take  the  carriage 
up  and  down  the  same  streets  dozens  of  times, 


and  so  have  caused  his  victim  to  deem  herself 
in  London  when  she  was  only  in  a  rural  bor- 
ough. 

But  my  agents  were  not  more  successful  in 
the  smaller  towns  than  they  were  in  the  larger. 
Every  post  they  sent  me  dozens  and  dozens  of 
copies  of  certificates,  but  not  one  of  them  related 
to  the  marriage  of  Arthur  Petersham  and  An- 
nette Tree.  Tiien  a  tliouglit  struck  me.  ' '  Wiiy," 
I  said,  "  need  the  town  in  wiiich  the  marriage 
took  place  be  so  far  from  the  corn  country  as 
London?  Just  as  Major  Watchit  might  have 
confused  Etty  as  to  the  size  of  the  town  in  which 
she  was  married,  so  he  might  have  deluded  her 
as  to  the  nature  and  distance  of  the  route  taken. 
He  might  have  traveled  over  the  same  country 
roads  and  lanes  dozens  of  times,  just  as  he  might 
dozens  of  times  have  had  his  carriage  rattled  up 
and  down  the  same  streets.  Thus  while  Etty 
believed  herself  posting  from  Laughton  to  Lon- 
don, she  might  only  have  been  taken  by  devious 
roads  backward  and  forward  in  her  native  prov- 
ince and  the  one  adjoining  it."  On  thi-s  strik- 
ing me,  I  caused  my  agents  to  send  me  copies 
of  all  the  marriage  registrations  of  the  specified 
dates  in  every  city  and  town  that  could  have 
been  reached  in  fifteen  hours  or  anij  less  period, 
by  people  traveling  in  a  carriage,  drawn  at  the 
extreme  speed  of  posting-horses. 

Five  years  I  carried  on  this  costly  and  harass- 
ing inquiry,  and  at  the  end  of  them  I  seemed  no 
nearer  attaining  to  my  object  than  when  I  first 
commenced  my  labors. 

"  Come,  Miss  Blake,"  at  length  Mr.  Castleton 
said  to  me,  "you  must  in  common  prudence  de- 
sist from  this  vain  hunt.  The  mystery  is  be- 
yond us  to  discover  J  and  you  are  ruining  your- 
self in  health  and  fortune  by  the  excitement 
and  the  enormous  expenses  of  a  mad  investiga- 
tion. Do  take  my  advice.  You  have  shown 
romantic  generosity  to  your  friend  in  doing  what 
you  have  done,  and  she  must  be  satisfied  that 
you  have  so  acted.  Indeed,  you  must  pause. 
Already  the  cost  of  paying  your  agents,  and  pay- 
ing the  requisite  fees  for  the  privilege  of  search- 
ing the  registers,  has  seriously  embarrassed  your 
income.  You  are  in  my  debt  now  for  several 
thousands,  and  ere  yon  succeed  in  achieving 
your  hope,  or  satisfying  yourself  that  it  is  be- 
yond achievement,  you  will  incur  liabilities  which 
yon  will  be  unable  to  liquidate  even  by  bequeath- 
ing to  your  creditors  the  whole  of  the  fortune  in 
the  hands  of  your  trustees,  and  which  you  are 
empowered  to  dispose  of  hy  your  last  testament. 
So  do  now  rest  quiet.  Pardon  the  warnnh  and 
decision  with  which  I  presume  to  give  you  this 
advice.  You  know  I  have  only  your  interest  at 
heart  in  giving  it." 

"Mr.  Castleton,"  I  said,  warmly,  "I  will  not 
desist  till  I  have  spent  every  sixpence  I  can  bor- 
row for  prosecuting  my  inquiries." 

"Why,  what  can  you  do?" 

"I  shall  go  to  Monaco  and  see  if  I  can  not 
discover  any  clew  to  this  mystery  there." 

"My  dear  Miss  Blake,  what  can  you  discover 
there  beyond  wjiat  you  already  know — that  Mr. 
Petersham,  and  ]Major  Watchit,  and  Miss  An- 
nette lived  together  for  some  time  in  a  cottage 
in  Castcllare?" 

"  It  is  no  use  for  you  to  discourage  me,  for  I 
am  bent  upon  making  the  trip." 

"You  mean  it?" 


160 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


"Yes,  and  if  I  can  not  get  you  to  accompany 
me  I  will  go  alone." 

"Nay,"  lie  said,  "if  you  will  in  sjiitc  of  my 
re])n  SLMitations  jiersevere  I  will  acconijiany  you." 

At'ier  the  lajise  of  a  few  months,  nnd  Just  a 
week  siihsequent  to  the  wedding-day  of  Tihhy 
nnd  J\dian,  Mr.  Castleton  and  I  set  out  for  Mo- 
naco, he  fortunately  having  a  jiartner  ready  and 
able  to  look  after  his  l)rofcss!onal  aflfairs. 

We  thought  at  one  time  of  taking  Etty  with 
us;  but  as  we  knew  the  excursion  would  cause 
her  great  pain,  we  determined  to  leave  her  at 
Fulhum,  and  send  for  her  to  join  us,  traveling 
under  a  suitable  escort,  if  any  thing  should  trans- 
pire at  Castcllare  which  should  make  us  wish  for 
her  presence  there. 

I  need  not  trouble  my  readers  with  all  the 
particulars  of  my  journey  to  Italy.  I  will  be 
brief.  We  spent  only  three  nights  at  Mentone, 
and  made  two  separate  excursions  to  Castellare. 
The  only  person  we  saw  at  Castellare  was  the 
priest  of  the  village,  who,  in  answer  to  our  ques- 
tion whether  he  remembered  an  English  gentle- 
man of  the  name  of  Petei-sham  living  in  the  vil- 
lage, in  a  jiarticular  residence  which  we  knew 
well  how  to  designate,  shook  his  head,  and  said 
gravely,  "I  remember  such  a  person;  he  was  a 
frequent  guest  of  a  gentleman  named  Watchit, 
who  held  the  residence  yon  mention  for  twenty 
years." 

"  For  twenty  years?"  Rlr.  Castleton  and  I  ex- 
claimed with  surprise. 

"Ay,  for  twenty  years.  He  was  a  rich  man, 
an  English  ^lobieman,  who  used  to  come  from 
England  to  Mentone  every  year  in  his  yacht. 
His  visits  here  were  mysterious,  and  in  one  re- 
spect painful." 

"How  so?" 

"There  was  always  a  lady  in  the  casino;  but 
not  the  same  one  throughout  the  twenty  years. 
From  this  circumstance  I  am  compelled  to 
put  a  painful  construction  on  that  gentleman's 
life." 

It  was  impossible,  I  said  to  myself  at  first. 
Major  Watchit  was  in  India  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  twenty  years !  He  could  not  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  paying  an  annual  visit  to 
Monaco !  Then,  in  another  minute,  the  expla- 
Tiation  of  the  mystery  flashed  upon  me. 

"  Can  you  describe  Mr.  Watchit  to  us?"  asked 
Mr.  Castleton. 

"Surely,  Sir,"  said  the  priest,  bowing;  "he 
was  of  the  middle  height,  of  a  fair  complexion, 
light  eyes,  and  liglit  hair,  worn  long." 

"Ay,  exactly,"  said  Mr.  Castleton,  not  a  sin- 
gle muscle  of  his  countenance  betraying  the  value 
he  set  upon  the  worthy  priest's  words.  "And 
Mr.  Fetersham  was — " 

"  Singularly  tall,  and  thin,  and  dark,  and  sun- 
l)urned." 

"  How  often  do  you  say  Mr.  Fetersham  was  a 
visitor  here?" 

"  During  the  last  two  years  and  ahalf  or  tliree 
years  of  Mr.  Watchit's  tenure  of  the  residence, 
he  was  here  much.  Indeed  for  as  long  as  six 
months  together  he  was  here  constantly.  It  is 
now  more  than  nine  years  since  Mr.  Watchit  re- 
linquished the  residence,  and  with  suddenness 
anil  some  mystery  left  the  village,  taking  with 
him  the  ])Oor  young  girl  who  had  last  lived  in 
the  residence  for  about  three  years." 
"  Why  do  you  call  her  poor?"  I  asked. 


"  Ay,  lady,"  he  answered,  "  and  is  not  sin  the 
woi'st  kind  of  poverty?" 

"Let  us  think  the  best  for  her." 

"I  do,  lady.  I  trust  that  she  has  repr'nted. 
My  villagers  are  very  simjile  ;  but  simplicity  r.ml 
ignorance  could  not  prevent  them  from  kno\s  Iiilt 
the  nature  of  Mr.  Watchit's  life.  And  she,  poor 
girl,  looked  rather  an  angel  of  grace  than  a  child 
of  iniquity.  She  was  very  unhappy  before  sli" 
left,  and  twice  I  obtained  means  to  have  som  ■ 
religions  conversation  with  her,  and  she  seemed 
much  moved  by  my  address  ;  but,  alas  !  she  dis- 
l)layed  the  worst  sign  of  such  guilt  as  hers." 

"What  was  that?" 

"  An  obdurate  determination  to  deny  her  guilt. 
She  said  she  was  married." 

"  And  you  did  not  believe  her?" 

"Nay,  lad}',  I  could  not.  I  had  seen  too 
many  of  her  predecessors  at  the  residence,"  he 
answered,  meekly,  and  not  uncharitably. 

"Do  yon  think  that  you  would  recognize  Mr. 
Watchit  if  you  saw  him?" 

"  Ay,  surely,"  the  priest  answered,  raising  his 
face  with  animation,  and  striking  his  breast  with 
his  right  hand,  "  the  maq,  was  too  much  the 
enemy  of  my  flock  for  me  not  to  remember  him 
well." 

"If  at  any  time,"  asked  Mr.  Castleton,  "we 
should  require  you,  in  the  cause  of  virtue  and 
religion,  to  come  to  England  to  identify  that 
man,  and  testify  that  he  lived  here  under  the 
name  of  AVatchit,  could  you  come?" 

"  I  Avould  ask  my  superiors,  and  I  doubt  not, 
Sir,  permission  would  be  accorded  to  me." 

We  had  much  further  conversation  with  the 
priest;  but  he  told  )is  nothing  moi-e  of  any  im- 
portance with  which  the  readers  of  the  preced- 
ing books  are  not  already  familiar. 

"Miss  Blake,"  said  Mr.  Castleton  to  me,  as 
we  returned  to  Mentone,  "you  have  rightly  read 
the  secret  of  Lord  Byfield's  life.  In  his  youth 
he  contracted  a  habit  of  dark  and  hidden  sin — 
sin  conceived  and  carried  out  in  tortuous  and 
secret  ])aths.  His  school-friend  Watchit  was, 
from  the  opening  to  the  close  of  his  life,  an  ac- 
complice in  his  crimes,  allowing  him,  his  power- 
ful [matron,  to  use  his  name,  as  a  curtain  behind 
which  he  might  with  impunity  perpetrate  his 
atrocities — as  a  blind  to  obviate  any  public  scan- 
dal depriving  him  of  his  right  to  your  fortune." 

"Do  you  still  advise  me  to  relinquish  my  in- 
vestigations?" I  asked,  with  something  of  tri- 
umph in  my  voice. 

' '  No, "  he  answered,  hotly.  ' '  And  rather  than 
have  you  desist  for  want  of  funds,  I'd  gladly 
give  you  £10,000  of  my  own  property,  although 
I  am  only  a  professional  man,  and  have  a  fam- 

ily." 


CIIAFTER  VIII. 

S  O  M  E  W  U  A  T     L  E  G  A  L. 

"The  marriage,"  said  I  to  Mr.  Castleton,- 
shortly  after  our  return  from  the  Continent, 
"must  have  been  performed  in  a  chin-ch  in 
which  such  a  ceremony  cotild  be  legally  i)er- 
formed.  VMy  so  distinctly  remembers  the  inte- 
rior of  the  building — the  position  of  the  galleries, 
the  fashion  of  the  pews,  the  attire  of  the  officia- 
ting clergyman.  The  font,  she  says,  stood  in  the 
middle   of  the  prindjial  aisle — a  fact  that  waa 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


161 


impressed  upon  her  by  its  station  rendering  it 
necessary  for  her  to  tni^e  a  circuit  round  ii,  be- 
fore she  could  rcacli  the  ]nirt  of  tiie  cliurcii  wiierc 
the  wedding  rites  were  solemnized.  The  dra- 
peries of  the  commnnion-tablc  were  of  blue  cloth, 
edged  with  gold  cord.  The  clergyman  wore  an 
M.A.  hood,  similar  to  her  grandfather's.  Now 
of  all  the  suppositions  which  can  bo  made  about 
this  mysterious  case,  the  most  incredible  is  that 
which  her  own  fears  once  suggested — namely, 
that  Lord  Byfield  took  her  to  an  nnconsecratcd 
building,  titled  up  in  imitation  of  a  church,  and 
duped  her  with  a  mock  marriage.  Such  a 
hypothesis  can  not  be  received  for  a  moment. 
Wliere  could  Lord  Byfleld  find  such  a  building, 
with  the  requisite  agents  to  serve  him  in  broad 
daylight?  Surely  in  no  town  in  England. 
There  must  be  a  record  of  the  marriage  in  some 
legal  register ;  and  if  we  could  find  it  we  should 
have  gained  our  game." 

"It  is  possible,"  said  the  lawyer,  "that  the 
marriage  was  legally  solemnized,  but  the  entry 
of  the  record  was  falsely  made :  the  wrong  names, 
for  instance,  might  have  been  inserted  in  the 
register." 

"But,"  I  said,  "Etty  signed  her  own  name 
Annette  Tree  ;  and  she  remembers  distinctly 
seeing  the  name  of  Arthur  Petersham  immedi- 
ately above  the  space  in  which  she  signed  her 
name." 

"Ay,"'  said  Mr.  Castleton,  holding  up  his 
hand,  and  smiling,  "she  told  us  so  yesterday, 
when  we  talked  the  whole  matter  over  with  her. 
But  perhaps  yon  did  not  notice  the  question  I 
put  to  her — whether  after  she  signed  the  register 
she  looked  at  it  again.  I  put  that  inquiry  to 
her,  and  she  answered  'No.'  " 

"Well?" 

"  It  was  possible  for  Major  Watchit,  or  anoth- 
er person,  to  have  falsified  the  record  after  Miss 
Annette  Tree  laid  down  the  pen.  Attend  to  me. 
There  were  in  all  present  at  the  ceremony  six 
persons — the  clergyman,  Arthur  Petersham,  xVn- 
nette  Tree,  Major  Watchit,  a  lady  named  Mrs. 
Spencer,  brought  to  the  church  by  IMr.  Peter- 
sham to  act  as  a  witness,  and  the  clerk.  The 
two  witnesses  were  Major  Watchit  and  Jlrs. 
Spencer.  IMajor  Watchit,  we  know,  was  an  ac- 
complice of  the  bridegroom's.  Mrs.  Spencer 
did  not  meet  Miss  Tree  at  the  hotel,  but  joined 
the  wedding  party  at  the  church,  Mr.  Petersham 
having  requested  her  attendance  tor  the  purpose 
of  witnessing  the  ceremony  and  signing  the  reg- 
ister. It  is  fair  to  suppose  that  this  woman  was 
also  an  accomplice.  Mr.  Petersham  did  not  (we 
are  informed)  introduce  her  by  name  to  Miss 
Tree  in  the  church,  but  only  called  her  '  an  old 
friond  of  his  mother's.'  Indeed,  IMiss  Annette 
did  not  learn  the  lady's  name  till  she  was  on 
her  road  to  the  sea-side,  when,  on  asking  Major 
Watchit  who  the  lady  was,  he  answered,  '  Mrs. 
Spencer.'  Now  who  this  w'oman  was  we  do  not 
know.  Miss  Tree  represents  her  as  aged  and 
decrp]nt.  Even  her  old  ag^  becomes  to  me  mat- 
ter of  suspicion  ;  for  whether  she  was  a  conscious 
accomplice  in  the  crime  (which  we  believe  to 
have  been  perpetrated),  or  whether  she  was  a 
mere  imbecile  tool,  ignorant  of  Mr.  Petersham's 
purpose,  it  quite  accords  with  Mr.. Petersham's 
systematic  caution  that  he  should  select  an  old 
person  for  his  coadjutor — a  person  who,  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  nature,  would  soon  be  dead, 
L 


and  unable  to  testify  against  him  at  any  distant 
jierioil.  Certainly  she  was  not  his  mother's  'in- 
timate friend,'  for  if  she  had  been  you  would 
have  heard  of  her." 

"Go  on.    I  will  regard  her  as  an  accomplice." 
"  And  I,  by  way  of  variety,  will  regard  her  as 
a  dupe — a  mere  unconscious  tool.     For  which- 
ever she  was  it  does  not  atfcct  tiic  main  issue." 
"  Go  on." 

"Let  us  suppose  the  ceremony  over,  and  the 
party  round  the  register  in  the  vestry.  Mr.  Ar- 
thur Petersham  signs  his  name — good  !  Miss 
Annette  Tree  signs  her  name — well  again  !  Mrs. 
Spencer  signs  her  name — so  far  all  is  well !  Now 
Major  Watchit  takes  the  pen  to  write  his  name 
as  a  witness.  As  the  Major  does  so  Mr.  Peter- 
s!i:un  gives  the  clerk  a  handsome  fee  and  tells 
him  to  hurry  out  of  the  vestry  and  see  if  his  car- 
riage is  all  ready.  The  clerk  of  course  obeys, 
and  removes  himself  from  the  scene.  That  done, 
Mr.  Petersham  adroitly  (as  he  can  do  things) 
engages  the  attention  of  the  sleepy  old  rector  in 
a  conversation  with  himself,  his  pretty  bride,  and 
Mrs.  Spencer,  who  has  already  signed  her  name. 
i\Iajor  Watchit  is  relieved  from  the  observation 
of  surrounding  eyes.  What  is  to  prevent  him 
from  not  merely  putting  in  a  signature  for  him- 
self, but  also  altering  the  names  already  inserted?  ^^ 
lie  might  do  this,  supposing  Mrs.  Spencer  were  ^P 
not  an  accomplice ;  he  would  do  it  with  greater 
ease  if  she  were  an  accomplice.  Let  us  cany 
the  scene  one  step  further.  The  clerk  comes  back 
and  announces  that  the  carriage  is  all  ready. 
The  rector  turns  round,  in  a  fluster  of  habitual 
sleepiness  broken  in  upon  by  the  excitement  of 
an  unusual  event,  and  says,  '  Oh,  dear  me  !  you 
would  like  a  copy  of  the  certificate  ?'  To  this  Mr. 
Petersham  answers,  '  It  is  of  no  consequence ; 
but  still  I  will  have  it.  Here,  Watchit,  I'll  lead 
Etty  to  the  carriage,  and  we'll  wait  till  you  bring 
us  the  copy — she  is  faint  and  wants  to  recline.' 
This  arrangement  is  acceded  to.  Mr.  Petersham 
puts  Etty  into  the  carriage.  Tiiey  wait  till  Ma- 
jor Watchit  comes  to  them  with  tlie  copy,  with 
all  its  misdescriptions,  and  puts  it  into  Mr.  Peter- 
sham's hand.  In  another  minute  Major  Watchit 
takes  his  place  by  the  side  of  Etty,  and  the  two 
post  oft"  to  the  sea.  Mr.  Petersham  then  enters 
his  carriage,  which  has  drawn  up  by  the  side  of 
the  door,  and  with  I\Irs.  Spencer  by  his  side 
drives  away.  It  may  also  'be  presumed  that  on 
reaching  his  wife  at  JMonaco  he  does  not  show 
the  attested  copy  of  the  certificate,  containing 
misdescriptions  which  would  rouse  her  suspi- 
cions." 

"What  an  astounding  hypothesis!"  said  I, 
genuinely  admiring  my  lawyer's  ingenuity.  "But 
the  misdescriptions  of  the  register  would  have  to 
accord  with  the  names  in  the  license,  which  of 
course  was  left  in  the  hands  of  the  officiating 
clergyman?" 

"Certainly.  I  assume  that  the  license  has 
been  obtained  with  misre]jrescntations." 

"  In  short,  that  Etty,  without  being  aware  of 
it,  was  married  under  a  wrong  name  ?" 
"Ay." 

"But,  INIr.  Castleton,  how  would  that  afiect 
the  validity  of  the  marriage?" 

"  Before  the  fourth  year  of  George  the  Fourth 
the  marriage  would  have  been  invalid  ;  and  there 
are  cases  on  record  of  women  who  were  unwit- 
tingly married  under  false  names,  by  rascals  who 


163 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


in  all  probabilily  knew  that  such  a  marriage  was 
no  ni:irriag;e." 

''  Wliat !  was  the  marriage  null  where  either 
partv  was  the  victim  of  fraud  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  siir]n'ise  me !" 

"I'll  give  you  a  piece  of  law,  Miss  Olive  Blake. 
Untler  the  2Gth  Geo.  IL,  c.  38,  if  there  was  a 
total  variation  of  a  name  or  names,  that  is,  if 
the  liaiis  were  published  in  a  name  or  names 
totally  different  from  those  which  tlie  parties,  or 
one  of  them,  ever  used,  or  by  which  they  were 
ever  known,  the  marriage  in  pursuance  of  that 
publication  was  invalid ;  and  it  was  immaterial 
in  sucli  cases  whether  the  misdescription  had 
arisen  from  accident  or  design,  or  whether  such 
design  were  fraudulent  or  not." 

"But  that  is  not  the  law  now?  it  was  not  the 
law  at  the  time  of  Etty's  marriage  ?  Oh,  say  it 
was  not !" 

"  I  will,  my  dear  Miss  Blake.  Do  not  frighten 
yourself.  The  law  was  altered  by  4  Geo.  IV., 
c.  76,  s.  22,  by  which,  in  order  to  invalidate  a 
marriage  where  such  variation  of  names  has  been 
made,  it  is  necessary  to  show  that  it  was  con- 
tracted with  a  knowledge  by  both  parties  of  such 
a  variation  having  been  made." 

"It  is  possible,"  I  said,  "that  Lord  Byfield 
was  ignorant  of  the  comparatively  recent  alter- 
ation in  the  law,  and  that  he  married  Etty  under 
a  ficiitious  name,  thinking  that  the  ceremony 
would  thereby  be  null." 

"Possibly.  Rogues  are  always  fools.  Lord 
Byfield  is  a  cunning,  polished,  adroit  man,  but 
he  is  a  rascal  (for  all  his  wealth  and  power); 
and  a  rogue,  whatever  natural  and  acquired  ad- 
vantages he  may  have,  invariably  shows  him- 
self in  the  long-run  that  which  Coleridge  de- 
fined him  to  be,  'a  fool  with  a  circumbendibus.' 
It  may  be  that  Lord  Byfield,  unaware  of  the 
ini])rovement  in  the  law,  overlooked  all  the  other 
consequences  of  a  criminal  conspiracy,  in  his 
anxiety  to  obtain  jwssession  of  a  beautiful  girl 
by  a  form  of  marriage  which  should  be  no  mar- 
riage." 

"  What  would  be  the  consequences  of  such  a 
crimf>  as  we  are  imagining?" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Castlcton,  with  a  laugh, 
"the  crime  with  which  I  charge  him  in  my 
imagination  is  so  very  vaguely  shaped  at  present 
that  I  really  can  not  reply  to  your  question.  Put 
me  an  exact  case." 

"  Suppose  Lord  Byfield  can  be  shown  to  have 
willfully  and  fraudulently  made  a  false  entry  in 
any  register  of  marriages,  to  what  punishment 
is  he  liable  ?" 

This  conversation  took  ])lace  in  Mr.  Castle- 
ton's  office  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  ;  and  when  I 
put  him  this  "case"  he  rose  from  his  seat,  went 
to  one  of  his  shelves,  and  took  down  a  volume, 
;Vom  which  he  read  as  follows  : 

"  1 1  Geo.  4,  &  1  Will.  4,  v..  r.G,  sec.  xx.— That 
if  any  person  shall  knowingly  and  willfully  in- 
sert, or  cause  or  permit  to  be  inserted,  in  any 
register  of  ba])tisms,  marriages,  or  burials,  which 
hath  been  or  shall  be  made  or  kept  by  the  rector, 
vicar,  curate,  or  officiating  minister  of  any  par- 
ish, <listfict-i)arish,  or  chapel ry  in  England,  any 
false  entry  of  any  matter  relating  to  any  baji- 
tism,  marriage,  or  burial,  or  shall  forge  or  alter 
in  any  such  re><ister  any  entry  of  any  matter  re- 
lating to  any  baptism,  marriage,  or  burial ;  or 


shall  utter  any  writing  as  and  for  a  cory  of  an 
entry  in  any  such  register  of  any  matter  re];;iiiig 
to  any  i)aptism,  marriage,  or  burial,  knowing 
such  writing  to  be  false,  forged,  or  altered  :  or 
if  any  person  shall  utter  any  entry  in  any  such 
register  of  any  matter  relating  to  any  baptism, 
niarriage,  or  burial,  knowing  such  entry  to  be 
false,  forged,  or  altered,  or  shall  utter  any  cojiv 
of  such  entry,  knowing  such  entry  to  be  false, 
forged,  or  altered,  or  shall  willfully  destroy,  de- 
face, or  injure,  or  cause  or  permit  to  be  de- 
stroyed, defaced,  or  injured  an)'  such  register,  or 
any  part  thereof;  or  shall  forge  or  alter,  or  shall 
utter,  knowing  the  same  to  be  forged  or  altered, 
any  license  of  marriage  ;  every  such  offender  shall 
be  (piilty  of  ftloiiy,  (aid,  hciwj  convicted  thereof, 
shall  be  liable,  ut  the  discretion  of  the  Court,  to  be 
ircin.yjorted  beyond  the  seas  for  life,  or  for  any 
term  not  less  than  seven  yeai's,  or  to  be  impris- 
oned for  any  term  not  exceeding  four  years,  or 
less  than  two  years." 

I  can  not  describe  the  significance  that  Mr. 
Castleton  threw  into  these  last  words. 

As  he  concluded  I  seized  the  book  and  read 
and  re-read  the  terrible  words.  I  had  never 
dreamed  of  such  consequences  being  attached  to 
such  an  act ;  never  for  one  moment  imagined 
the  power  I  should  have  over  Lord  Byfield  if  I 
could  prove  him  guilty  of  the  crime  of  which  I 
had  vaguely  and  dimly  suspected  him,  before 
Mr.  Castleton  so  particularly  and  graphically 
suggested  it  in  the  conversation  just  narrated. 

"  You'd  better  take  the  book  home  with  you," 
observed  Mr.  Castlcton,  smiling;  "it  seems  to 
entertain  vou." 

"  Thank  you,  I  will  take  it,  and  also  say  '  Good- 
morning.'  " 

Mr.  Castleton  gave  me  his  arm  and  conducted 
me  to  my  carriage,  which  waited  for  me  in  Lin- 
coln's Inn  Fields. 

"Home,"  I  said  to  the  footman,  as  I  stepped 
in  the  carriage — "and  quick." 

It  was  winter  time ;  so  I  drew  up  the  glasses. 
And  then  throwing  myself  back  in  my  seat,  I 
opened  ]Mr.  Castleton's  terrible  volume  and  read:, 
'■'■Every  such  offender  shall  be  (jnilty  of  felony, 
and,  being  convicted  thereof,  shall  be  liable,  at  the 
discretion  of  the  Court,  to  be  transported  beyond 
the  seas  for  life.''' 


CHAPTER  IX. 


ST.    DUXSTAN's,    BIRMINGHAM. 

Renewed  with  hope,  and  in  a  far  different 
frame  of  mind  from  that  in  which  I  had  started 
for  Monaco,  I  now  resumed  my  investigations. 

I  procured  the  services  of  fresh  agents,  for 
though  they  were  to  act  as  copyists  for  me,  they 
were  to  make  their  copies  with  a  precision  and 
accuracy  that  I  had  not  before  thought  requisite. 
]\Iy  new  copyists  were  copper-i)late  engravere, 
and  they  were  ordered  to  make  for  me  fac-sim- 
iles  of  the  minutest  exactness  of  every  registra- 
tion of  a  marriage  in  the  week  in  which  Etty  was 
married.  Before,  I  had  had  copies  taken  of  all 
the  certificates  of  an  entire  month  ;  but  now  I 
was  satisfied  with  the  certificates  of  a  week. 
Tiie  engravers  were  directed  to  make  careful  fac- 
similes, putting  upon  their  cojiiis  every  blot, 
smear,  speck,  or  discoloratit)n  found  in  the  orig- 


i 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


163 


inals.  Of  course  their  work  was  tedious  and 
expensive ;  but  I  was  determined  to  ruin  myself 
pecuniarily  rather  than  not  accomplish  my  task, 
or  leave  it  unaccomplished  while  u  sixpence  re- 
mained in  my  purse.  Besides  the  expense  of 
the  engravers'  labor,  I  (that  is  to  say,  Mr.  Castlc- 
ton,  actiufi;  for  me)  had  to  pay  heavy  fees  to  the 
custodians  of  the  archives  for  ]ierniissiun  to  take 
such  co])ies.  All  I  had  legally  a  right  to  de- 
mand uf  the  keepers  of  the  registers  was  that 
they  would  give  me  substantially  true  copies  of 
the  certificates  for  a  certain  specified  fee  per 
copy.  But  as  I  wanted  a  fancy  article  1  hud  to 
{)ay  a  fancy  price  for  it.  My  fac-similes  were  as 
expensive  a  sort  of  literature  as  a  lady  ever  in- 
dulged herself  in. 

For  two  years  and  three  months  I  carried  on 
this  costly  process  without  any  result.  Every 
fac-simile,  as  it  came  to  me,  I  carefully  exam- 
ined under  strong  magnifying  glasses,  and  scru- 
tinized with  a  regard  to  those  rules  by  which 
"experts"  decide  on  the  genuineness  or  identity 
or  difference  of  various  specimens  of  calligraphy. 
But  not  a  fac-simile  did  I  get,  in  return  for  all 
the  money  I  was  spending,  that  could  be  made 
a  foundation  of  fresh  confidence.  At  the  end 
of  my  first  year  and  a  half  of  this  work  I  had  ex- 
hausted the  London  registers,  and  then  my  copy- 
ists were  sent  into  the  provinces.  They  had 
been  working  in  provincial  towns  for  about  nine 
months ;  and  thougli  I  did  not  exactly  despair 
of  ultimate  success,  I  was  beginning  to  be  sorely 
worn  with  disappointment,  when  I  received  from 
the  register  of  St.  Dunstan's  church,  in  Birming- 
ham, a  fac-simile  of  a  certificate  of  a  marriage 
between  Arthur  Feversham  and  Jeannette  Free- 
man which  caused  my  heart  to  beat  high.  The 
signature  of  the  officiating  clergyman  was  Charles 
Hohart,  M.A.  The  attesting  witnesses  were  Anne 
Walker  and  Herbsrt  Johnson. 

The  first  thing  that  attracted  my  attention  in 
this  fac-simile  was  the  "Arthur  Feversham," 
the  F  and  the  v  of  the  Feversham  being  so  formed 
that  they  closely  resembled  P  and  t.  So  strong 
was  this  resemblance  that  at  the  first  glance  I 
read  the  name  Petersham,  and  not  Feversham. 
Then  my  heart  beat  high  for  the  first  time. 
"Why,"  said  I  to  myself,  "may  not  that  word 
have  been  so  written  for  the  ex])ress  jnirpose  of 
misleading  the  eye  ?  but  whose  eye  ?  not  mine  ! 
whose  eye  could  it  have  been  intended  to  de- 
ceive ?"  My  heart  beat  higher !  Moreover,  as 
I  looked  at  the  handwriting  I  could  have  sworn 
(scratchy  and  disguised  though  it  was)  that  it 
was  Lord  By  field's.  It  was  just  the  writing  of 
Lord  Byfield  when  he  was  hurried,  or  tired,  or 
ill.  My  heart  leaped  within  as  though  it  were 
mad. 

But  Jeannette  Freeman.  How  about  that? 
Let  me  see.  Here  is  the  signature.  Jeannette 
Freeman.  I  look  at  it  under  my  glass.  Ha! 
Wliy  is  there  that  little  dot  after  the  second  e 
of  Freeman.  A  dot  there  !  Why  ?  A  bride 
doesn't  put  a  dot  under  a  letter  in  the  centre  of 
her  surname,  as  bank-clerks  sometimes  do  to 
mark  their  signature.  A  lady  making  her  sig- 
nature in  full  might  put  a  dot  after  tlie  kist  letter 
of  her  surname,  but  after  no  other.  But  then, 
again,  w'hy  does  that  second  e  of  Freeman  fit  so 
awkwardly  on  to  the  waw  ?  Why,  the  up-strokc 
of  the  e  runs  into  the  m  like  a  needle !  Surely 
then  man  has  been  added  on  by  another  hand. 


The  original  name  ended  with  the  second  e. 
Now  let  me  examine  the  /•'  of  Free.  Why  two 
strokes  of  a  pen  ciiange  T  into  F.  And  now  I 
look  at  it,  the  top  of  the  /'  and  the  down-stroke 
have  not  been  made  without  taking  pen  from 
paper,  as  is  usual  in  a  running  hand  ;  but  they 
were  made  separately.  See,  too,  the  little  thin 
u])-stroke  going  uj)  to  the  toj)  of  a  T — not  an  F ! 
Clearly,  the  original  name  was  Tree;  the  7' was 
altered  into  an  /',  and  the  man  was  added.  So 
Tree  was  made  Frceinan.  But  the  Christian 
name — Jeannette  ?  Ah,  that  is  clear,  too  ;  Etty 
still  alwitj's  writes  the  initial  letter  of  her  Chris- 
tian name  (Annette)  in  round  character,  and 
not  with  a  pointed  top.  Her  A  is  not  a  wedge 
with  a  dash  across.  No.  Annette  was  the 
original  name,  and  Je  has  been  added  on  (see 
how  large  the  A  of  Jeannette  is);  and  so  An- 
nette Tree  has  been  turned  into  Jeannette  Free- 
man ! 

I  rose  from  my  seat  with  the  fac-simile  clutched 
in  my  hand.  A  mirror  was  before  me ;  and 
happening  to  glance  at  it,  and  see  my  own  sem- 
blance on  its  bright  surface,  I  was  really  fright- 
ened with  the  disorder  and  triumph  of  my  ap- 
pearance; the  flush  of  my  cheeks  and  the  wild 
gleam  of  my  ej^es. 

I  had  been  alone  while  I  examined  the  fac- 
simile; but  now  as  I  stood  surveying  myself  in 
the  mirror  the  door  oj^ened,  and  Etty  came  into 
the  room. 

"Why,  Olive,"  she  cried,  with  unusual  anima- 
tion, "what  makes  you  look  so  terribly  happy  ?" 

"Good  news,  my  dear!"  I  answered.  "The 
postman  has  brought  me  good  news;  but  never 
mind  at  ])resent  what  it  is.  Let  us  go  to  break- 
fast, and  afterward  you  must  drive  with  me  into 
town,  to  Mr.  Castleton's  chambers." 

"Is  the  news  about  me?"  Etty  inquired 

"It  is,  but  ask  no  questions  about  it.  I  must 
be  obeyed." 

"I  will  obey  you,  dear!"  Etty  said,  meekly — 
and  wl\en  she  had  uttered  the  words  I  saw  by 
the  light  of  her  violet  eyes  that  she  was  thank- 
ing Heaven  for  "the  good  news,"  of  which  I 
thought  it  right  still  to  keep  her  in  ignorance. 

On  arriving  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  I  left 
Etty  in  the  carriage  and  went  alone  up  stairs 
into  Mr.  Castleton's  chambers.  It  was  still  early, 
but  he  was  already  in  his  office,  immersed  in  pa- 
pers, when  I  was  admitted  to  him. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Blake,  I  am  glad  to  see 
you,  but  I  am  in  the  midst  of  a  most  heavy  and 
perplexing  case.  Still  I  can  attend  to  vou. 
What  is  it?" 

"  Look  at  this  fac-simile,  imder  this  glass,  and 
let  me  meantime  tell  you  what  I  see,"  I  said. 

He  complied  with  my  request,  examining  it 
intently,  while  I  quietly  unfolded  to  him  my 
critical  opinions  on  the  signatures. 

"  By  Jove  I"  exclaimed  Mr.  Castleton,  flasliing 
out  at  me  streams  of  fire  from  his  eyes,  and  stop- 
])ing  me  in  the  midst  of  my  exposition,  "we  have 
caught  him  at  last.  My  dear  Miss  Blake,  we 
must  go  down  to  Birmingham  instantly." 

"  But  you  are  engaged  on  an  important  case?" 

"My  dear  Miss  Blake,  that  can  wait,  shall 
wait,  must  wait.  Birmingham,  Birmingham! 
God  bless  Robert  Stephensoit  for  his  London 
and  Birmingham  Railway  !  Let's  see.  It's  now 
a  quarter  to  eleven.  If  Miss  Annette  were 
here — " 


164 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


"  She  is  here — in  the  carriage  at  the  door."' 

'•Good!  Then  we'll  catch  the  express  and 
he  in  Birmingham  by  half  jiast  one.  Just  ex- 
cuse me  for  three  seconds  and  I'll  come  back  in 
my  hat  and  great-coat." 

The  three  seconds  were  scarcely  exceeded 
when  Mr.  Castleton  returned,  hatted  and  coated, 
with  his  managing  clerk  at  liis  heels.  "Now, 
Simpson,"  he  said  to  his  clerk,  "you  must  man- 
age to  get  on  with  that  case  to-day  by  yourself. 
You  remember  my  instructions  about  it.  I  am 
going  out  of  town  on  particular  business,  and 
most  likely  I  shall  not  return  to  London  to-day. 
Good-morning.  Now,  Miss  Blake,  I  am  at  your 
service." 

As  we  descended  the  wide  staircase  of  the  old 
mansion  in  which  j\Ir.  Castleton  had  his  cham- 
bers I  said  to  him,  "Mr.  Castleton,  Etty  is  in 
the  carriage,  but  she  is  quite  ignorant  of  the  na- 
ture of  this  morning's  intelligence.  I  thought  it 
best  to  keep  her  in  the  secret.  Let  ns  take  her 
down  to  Birmingham,  into  the  very  church  in 
which  the  fraud  was  consummated,  witliout  re- 
vealing to  her  the  object  of  our  journey,  and 
jjerhajjs  her  recognition  of  the  place  will  be  of 
such  a  kind  as  to  give  us  serviceable  evidence. 
We  won't  even  tell  her  the  name  of  the  place  to 
which  we  are  bound." 

"Quite  riglitl  quite  right!"  said  Mr.  Castle- 
ton, emphatically,  as  he  helped  me  into  my  car- 
riage, and  then  took  a  seat  o))posite  to  me  and 
Etty,  with  his  back  to  the  horses. 

Ere  another  quarter  of  an  hour  had  passed 
we  three  were  gliding  along  Robert  Stephenson's 
iron  rails,  drawn  by  the  ropes  and  stationary  en- 
gines of  the  old  system  of  that  line.  At  Camden 
Town  we  left  the  ropes  behind  us.  A  locomo- 
tive engine  having  been  harnessed  to  the  train, 
we  sped  along  at  more  than  forty  miles  an  hour. 
The  whole  way  down  the  line  Mr.  Castleton  and 
I  remained  silent,  he  with  eyes  fixed  intently  on 
the  columns  of  the  morning's  Times,  and  I  study- 
ing with  a  similar  appearance  of  interest. the  new 
"Quarterly,"  and  each  of  us  caring  as  little  for 
the  printed  words  before  us  as  if  they  had  been 
thrown  on  the  paper  helter-skelter  by  a  wild 
army  of  mad  compositors.  As  for  Etty,  it  was 
her  first  journey  behind  a  steam  locomotive,  and 
she  was  too  full  of  conjecture  as  to  the  nature  of 
"the  good  news,"  of  excitement  consequent  on 
her  sudden  removal  from  the  quiet  of  my  villa, 
and  of  wonder  at  the  new  method  of  traveling, 
to  care  for  such  ordinary  gossij)  as  we  could  carry 
on  in  a  railway  carriage,  in  the  company  of  other 
passengers. 

"Drive  to  a  hotel,"  said  Mr.  Castleton  to  the 
fly-man,  when  he  had  put  me  and  Etty  into  one 
of  a  string  of  public  conveyances  drawn  up  be- 
fore the  Birmingham  station. 

"Which  hotel.  Sir?"  asked  the  man. 
"The  best,  of  course,"  answered  Mr.  Castle- 
ton, taking  his  seat  in  the  fly — "the  'Warwick 
Arms.'  " 

"Yes,  Sir." 

At  the  end  of  another  ten  minutes  we  alight- 
ed at  the  door  of  tlie  "Warwick  Arms,"  which 
excellent  family  hotel,  many  of  my  readers 
doubtless  know,  stands  in  Gimp  Street — a  nar- 
row thoroughfare  in  the  very  centre  of  Birming- 
ham. 

The  landlord  of  the  hotel  came  to  receive  us 
at  the  door. 


"Can  you  let  us  have  three  good  bedrooms 
and  two  sitting-rooms?"  asked  Mr.  Castleton. 

"Yes,  Sir,"  was  the  answer. 

So  we  entered  the  hotel,  and  passed  through 
the  rather  narrow  passage  leading  from  the 
chief  entrance  to  the  interior  of  the  house,  and 
ascended  a  dark,  gloomy  staircase.  As  we  were 
ascending  that  staircase  Etty,  M'ho  was  walking 
close  by  my  side,  caught  hold  of  my  hand  and 
cried  in  a  stifled  voice,  "Oh,  Olive!"  I  had 
scarcely  time  to  answer  to  this  exclamation, 
"What  is  the  matter,  dear?"  when  she  fainted 
away,  and  fell  into  my  arms. 

I  carried  her  into  the  nearest  of  the  light  airy 
sitting-rooms  on  the  first  floor,  and  with  the  aid 
of  cold  water,  smelling  salts,  and  wine,  I  soon 
had  the  pleasure  of  causing  her  to  revive. 

"  Olive,"  she  said,  after  a  lapse  of  about  twen- 
tj'  minutes,  during  the  last  ten  of  which  .she  re- 
collected her  faculties  and  looked  round  the  room, 
"I  fainted  av/ay  because  I  recognized  this  place. 
The  excitement  was  too  much  for  me.  This  is 
the  hotel  Major  Watchit  took  me  to.  This  is 
the  very  room  we  breakfasted  in.  I  know  it,  al- 
though it  has  been  altered  in  some  respects,  and 
has  a  diflerent  paper.  Those  three  windows  had 
the  blinds  drawn  down  over  them." 

"Surely,  my  dear,"  I  answered;  "they  look 
into  the  street." 

"Where  is  Mr.  Castleton?" 

"  He  has  gone  into  the  town,  dear,  for  a  few 
minutes.     Be  quiet,  and  calm.'' 

"Where  are  we,  Olive?" 

"In  Birmingham." 

"Oh,  Olive,"  she  said,  crying,  "how  could  I 
have  been  married  in  Birmingham  ?  And  yet  I 
remember  this  room  so  well." 

As  she  uttered  these  few  words  Mr.  Castleton 
returned,  and  said,  "You  remember  this  room, 
Miss  Annette,  you  say.  Do  you  think  now  you 
could  lead  us  to  the  bedroom  you  occupied  on 
the  night  before  your  wedding  ?" 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  quickly.  "  The  door  of 
the  bedroom  is  immediately  opposite  the  door  of 
this  room.  It  is  a  large  room,  with  three  win- 
dows. The  two  windows  on  the  side  of  the  room 
opposite  the  door  overlook  the  hotel  yard.  The 
third  window,  which  is  in  the  most  distant  side 
of  the  apartment,  is  placed  close  against  the  cor- 
ner. It  does  not  correspond  with  the  rest  of  the 
room,  but  seems  to  have  been  put  in  as  an  after- 
thought." 

"Do  you  remember  what  that  window  over- 
looked?" asked  Mr.  Castleton. 

"A  church-yard." 

"You  are  sure  of  that  ?" 

"Yes;  for  I  sat  for  hours  during  the  night 
looking  at  the  church,  and  wondering  wiiether 
it  was  the  one  I  was  to  be  married  in." 

Mr.  Castleton  rang  the  bell. 

"  Send  the  chambermaid  here,"  he  said  to  the 
waiter. 

"Yes,  Sir." 

The  chambermaid  came,  when  Mr.  Castleton 
said,    "These  ladies  want  to  select   bedrooms. 
Conduct  them  first  into  the  bedroom  the  door  of 
which  is  immediately  opposite  this;  for  one  ofj 
these  ladies  has  already  occupied  it,  and  would  j 
like  to  have  it  again  if  it  is  disengaged." 

"^The  room  opposite  this  room,  Sir?"  said  thej 

"  Ay,"  responded  Mr.  Castleton,  opening  the 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


165 


(Uior  of  the  room  in  wlikh  wc  were,  aiul  point- 
ing with  liis  finger  to  a  door  in  tlic  ojipositc  wall 
of  the  staircase  landing.  "  That  is  the  door  you 
mean,  Miss  Annette,  is  it  not  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Etty. 

"That  isn't  a  bedroom.  Sir,"  answered  the 
maid  ;    "  it's  a  sitting-room." 

"What?     Was  it  never  a  bedroom?"' 

"I  can't  say,  Sir.  It  never  was  a  bedroom 
since  I  knew  it." 

"How  long  liave  you  been  chamber-maid 
here?" 

'■  Six  years." 

"Is  there  any  servant  in  the  hotel  who  was 
here  sixteen  years  since?  How  long  has  the 
landlord  been  here?" 

"  Oh,  Sir,  master  only  took  the  liotel  last  year. 
But  the  upper  house-maid  has  lieen  here  in  the 
hotel  twenty  years.  She  has  lived  under  four 
different  landlords  of  the  'Warwick  Arms.'  " 

"  My  good  girl,  there's  half  a  crown  for  you. 
Now  sliow  us  into  the  room  of  whieli  we  ai'e 
speaking,  and  send  the  upi)er  house-maid  to  us." 

"Certainly,  Sir." 

In  another  half  minute  the  girl  had  left  us,  in 
order  to  send  the  upper  house-maid  to  us ;  and 
we  were  standing  in  the  room,  looking  round  it, 
and  to  our  mortificatiou  finding  in  it  only  two 
windows^  The  windows  overlooking  the  yard 
were  there,  but  no  third  window  having  a  view 
of  tiie  church-yard  was  to  be  seen. 

In  a  minute  the  ujjper  house-maid,  a  most  re- 
spectable-looking wonum,  of  about  forty  or  five- 
and-forty  years  of  age,  was  before  us,  and  no 
sooner  did  she  make  her  appearance  than  Mr. 
Castleton  poured  upon  her  a  quick  fire  of  ques- 
tions. 

"Was  this  room  ever  a  b3droom?"''  he  began. 

"Yes,  Sir,"  said  tlie  woman,  opening  her  eves 
with  astonishment. 

"  When  was  it  altered  inio  a  sitting-room  ?" 

"About  eight  years  since,  Sir;  just  before 
Mr.  Landers,  wjio  was  the  landlord  of  the  'War- 
wick Arms'  when  the  room  was  altered,  died." 

"How  long  had  it  been  used  as  a  bedroom 
before  it  was  so  altered  ?" 

"Oh,  years  and  years,  Sir.  It  was  a  bedroom 
before  my  time,  and  Fve  been  in  the  hotel  for 
twenty  years.  And  since  I  came  to  be  servant 
here  it  was  a  bedroom  till  Mr.  Landers  altered  it. 
Ir  wa-;  about  the  last  thing  he  did,  poor  man." 

"  Had  it  ever  a  third  window?" 

'•  To  be  sure  it  had,  Sir.  It's  clear  you  know 
all  about  the  room.  It  had  a  window"  (point- 
ing) "  riglit  in  tlie  corner,  overlooking  St.  Dun- 
stan's  church-yard,  which  is  right  at  the  back. 
Mr.  Landers  (who  was  rather  a  fanciful  man  in 
some  tilings)  said  a  cro.'is  liglit  was  bad  for  a 
sitting-room,  and  that  the  look-out  on  the  grave- 
yard made  tlie  room  unpleasant,  so  he  had  the 
window  bricked  up." 

"Xow,"  said  Mr.  Castleton,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  "  it  is  of  course  the  custom  for  the  land- 
lord to  note  down  in  his  day-book  or  house-book, 
or  whatever  he  calls  it,  the  occupants  of  the  rooms, 
just  as  he  appropriates  them  to  new  visitors." 

"Well,  Sir,  you'd  find  out  by  the  ledger  what 
parties  were  in  the  house  on  a  particular  night ; 
but  most  generally  the  parties  arc  known  only 
by  the  numbers  of  the  rooms  they  occupy.  You 
see.  Sir,  if  a  gentleman  takes  'bedroom  42,'  he 
is  entered  in  the  ledger  as  'No.  42,'  with  the 


date  against  him,  and  'gentleman'  written  after 
the  date." 

"Ay.  You  have  a  new  landlord  here?  He 
came  last  year?" 

"Yes,  Sir." 

"Uo  you  happen  to  know  if  lie  has  the  old 
account-books  of  the  establishment  in  Mr.  Lan- 
ders's  time,  and  even  prior  to  Mr.  Landers's 
time?" 

"No,  Sir — he  hasn't  got  them,"  answered  the 
woman,  proudly. 

"  How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Because  I  have  them.  They  are  my  prop- 
erty." 

"Indeed!" 

"You  see.  Sir,  though  I  came  here  only  as 
imder  house-maid,  1  was  a  scholar,  and  could 
keep  accounts.  Now,  Sir,  Mr.  Holland  (who 
was  the  first  landlord  I  lived  under  here)  was 
no  great  scholar.  He  could  just  write  his  name, 
but  that's  all  he  could  do.  He  had  to  get  some 
one  to  do  his  accounts  for  him,  and  first  and  last 
he  was  cheated  out  of  a  good  deal  of  money  by 
having  to  trust  to  dishonest  people.  Well,  Sir, 
after  he  had  tried  a  number  of  clerks,  he  found 
out  (soon  after  I  came  to  him)  that  I  was  a 
scholar  and  could  keep  books.  So  he  made  mc 
upper  house-maid,  and  gave  me  £2o  a  year  to 
keep  his  books  for  him.  Well,  Sir,  from  that 
time  till  Mr.  James,  the  jjresent  landlord,  came, 
I  kept  the  books  of  the  hotel.  I  kept  them  in 
Mr.  Holland's  time,  and  Mr.  Landers's  time, 
and  jNIr.  Smith's  time ;  and  when  Mr.  James 
came  in  last  Michaelmas,  I  agreed  to  stop  on 
with  him  in  the  '  Warwick  Arms'  for  another 
year  if  he  would  let  me  take  away  the  old  books 
with  me,  which  I  had  kept  for  so  many  years. 
And  Mr.  James,  as  he  doesn't  want  me  to  keep 
the  accounts,  and  as  he  keeps  his  accounts  in  a 
way  quite  different  from  my  waj-,  told  me  that 
'  old  account-books'  would  be  of  no  use  to  him, 
and  he  would  make  them  a  present  to  me.  You 
see.  Sir,  the  books  had  always  gone  along  with 
the  business  as  a  jjart  of  the  stock  in  trade." 

"  Then  you  are  going  to  retire  from  service 
here?"  I  said. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  the  woman,  witli 
healthy  pride  and  honest  self-satisfaction,  "and 
I'm  going  to  live  on  my  property.  The  '  War- 
wick Arms'  have  done  well  to  me,  just  as  I  have 
done  well  to  the  'Warwick  Arms.'  " 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Castleton,  altering  his  tone 
of  voice,  now  that  he  knew  he  was  speaking  to 
a  lady  of  property,  "for  whatever  information 
you  give  me  I  am  willing  to  pay  liberally.  I 
want  to  find  out  who  slept  in  this  room  in  which 
wc  are  now  standing  on  the  night  of  October  — , 
IS — .  Be  good  enough  to  bring  your  books 
here,  and  sec  if  they  will  satisfy  my  curiosity." 

The  woman  left  the  room  and  returned  to  us 
in  about  two  minutes,  bearing  in  her  strong  arms 
four  account-books. 

"Now,"  she  said,  putting  her  admired  litera- 
ry productions  on  the  table,  "what  is  the  date?" 

"The  night  of  October  the  — st,  18 — ,"  an- 
swered i\Ir.  Castleton. 

The  woman  referred  to  the  date  in  one  of  the 
books,  and  after  glancing  at  the  entry  her  face 
flushed  up,  and  the  light  came  into  her  eyes,  as 
she  exclaimed,  "Why,  Sir,  you  can't  mean  that 
after  all  these  years  you've  come  to  make  inqui- 
ries about  that  beautiful  young  lady  ?" 


1C6 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


""What  beautiful  yoiiiig  latly  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Castletoii. 

"Why,  Miss  Freeman,  to  l)e  sure,  Sir — the 
lady  who  was  married  in  that  strange  way  more 
than  lifrcen  years  ago." 

"Let  me  look  at  the  entry." 

The  woman  showed  him  the  book,  reading  at 
the  same  time,  "i\'o.  42.  Bedroom  taken  for  a 
lady  by  Mr.  Arthur  Fevers/nan."  "  T/iat,  yon 
see,  Sir,  was  all  I  wrote  at  first.  But  after  the 
lady  left,  and  had  been  married  in  that  myste- 
rious way,  I  made  a  note  by  the  side:  ^ Miss 
Freeman  and  i]fr.  Feverskum  married  next  day  in 
St.  Uimstans  church.  Miss  Freeman  left  a  pock- 
et-handkerchief behind  her  in  the  bedroom  marked 
in  cotton  stitclt  ^' Ktty."  '  You  see.  Sir,  I  ])ut  that 
down  just  to  keep  tiie  matter  in  my  mind.  But 
there  was  little  need.  Sir ;  for  I  and  tlie  clerk  of 
St.  Diinstau's  have  often  talked  it  over  and  had 
a  laugh  a!wut  it,  wondering  whether  my  hand- 
kerchief and  his  glove  would  ever  come  to  any 
use.     For  you  see.  Sir,  he  has  a  glove  which — " 

"Never  mind  the  clerk's  glove,"  put  in  Mr. 
Castlcton,  smartly  ;  "he'll  tell  us  all  about  that 
himself  when  he  comes.  I  have  sent  for  him. 
I  have  seen  his  wife,  and  she  is  going  to  send 
him.  Let's  keep  to  the  point.  You  say  that 
No.  42  was  taken  by  Mr.  Arthur  Feversham. 
Had  that  gentleman  been  living  in  the  hotel 
previously?" 

"To  be  sure  he  had,  Sir.  He  had  rooms  here 
for  two  months  just  before  his  marriage;  but  he 
occupied  them  only  a  part  of  the  time.  You 
sec  he  kept  here  the  number  of  days  required  by 
law  before  lie  could  get  a  license  from  old  Mr. 
Hobart,  the  rector  of  St.  Dunstan's.  Then  he 
went  away  (but  during  his  absence  the  rooms 
were  kept  for  him  all  the  same)." 

"  When  did  he  give  the  order  for  this  room  ?" 

"Well,  Sir,  that  I  can't  answer  off-hand. 
Perhaps,  if  you  gave  me  time,  I  might  discover 
something  in  my  books  that  would  enable  me  to 
speak  as  to  that.  But  I  couldn't  so  speak  now. 
You  see.  Sir,  it's  a  long  time  since  the  gentleman 
was  here." 

"Exactly.  Did  Mr.  Feversham  lead  a  quiet 
life  \\1iile  he  was  an  inmate  of  the  hotel  ?" 

"Very,  Sir;  he  never  seemed  to  have  any 
business  or  callers.  He  always  kept  in  his  rooms 
reading  all  day.  And  what  exercise  he  took 
was  taken  after  dark.  We  couldn't  at  first  make 
him  out  at  all,  none  of  us.  But  when  we  found 
out  that,  immediately  after  paying  his  bill  and 
leaving  the  hotel,  he  was  married  to  the  young 
lady  liis  friend  had  brought  here  to  meet  him 
overnight,  we  understood  what  the  case  was. 
Lord  bless  you.  Sir,  more  than  one  secret  mar- 
riage has  taken  i)lace  from  the  '  Warwick  Arms' 
since  I  have  been  here.     And — " 

The  woman  was  still  sjieaking  when  the  under 
chamber-maid  of  the  hotel  (the  girl  who  had  first 
attended  to  us)  came  u]i,  and  said  the  jjarish- 
clerk  of  St.  Dunstan's  (Mr.  Godfrey)  had  called, 
and  wished  to  speak  to  Mr.  Castlcton. 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Castlcton,  "send  him 
up." 

Mr.  Godfrey  came  up  stairs;  and  as  he  enter- 
ed the  room,  and  the  door  was  closed  by  the 
under  house -maid  behind  him,  Mr.  Castlcton 
said  to  the  upper  chamber-maid,  "As  you  and 
Mr.  Godfrey  have  already  talked  tliis  matter 
over,  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  leave  the  room 


uidess  you  wish.     You  would,  perhaps,  like  to 

hear  what  I  have  to  say  to  him." 

"Thank  yon.  Sir;  I  should  like  to  stop." 
So  the  woman  remained  in  the  room. 


CHAPTER  X. 


EVIDENCE. 


The  clerk  of  St.  Dunstan's  church  was  a  very 
intelligent  and  superior  person  for  a  man  in  his 
humble  rank  of  life.  His  age  was  seventy,  but 
he  looked  much  younger ;  and  his  bearing  was 
such  that  had  it  not  been  for  his  provincial  ac- 
cent, and  a  few  other  peculiarities,  he  might  have 
been  introduced  into  the  society  of  gentlemen  as 
a  gentleman  without  causing  any  surprise. 

"You  are  the  clerk  of  St.  Dunstan's?"  Mr. 
Castlcton  observed,  upon  his  eiitrance. 

"I  am.  Sir,"  answered  Mr.  Godfrey,  bowing 
to  me.  Etty  was  sitting  with  her  back  turned 
to  us,  looking  out  of  the  window.  Her  veil  also 
was  drawn  over  her. 

"  I  may  as  well  inform  you  that  I  am  a  London 
solicitor,  and  that  the  men  wdto  have  been  late- 
ly making  fac-similes  of  the  certificates  in  your 
register  of  marriages,  and  whom  you,  as  well  as 
the  vestry  clerk  of  St.  Dunstan's,  have  kindly 
assisted,  are  agents  acting  under  my  directions. 
I  have  this  morning  seen  a  fac-simile  of  a  cer- 
tificate of  a  marriage,  solemnized  in  your  church 
between  a  Mr.  Arthur  Feversham  and  a  Miss 
Jeannette  Freeman  on  the  — th  day  of  October, 
1 8 — .     From  what  has  dropped  from  the  lips  of 

I  this  most  respectable  woman"  (the  upper  house- 

;  maid   courtesicd   her   acknowledgment   of  the 

}  compliment)  "I  know  that  you  remember  the 

■  occurrence  of  the  marriage." 

"I  remember  it  well,"  answered  Mr.  Godfrey. 
"May  I  ask  you  (for  my  inquiries  are  of  the 
highest  importance)  to   state  what  intercourse 
you  had  with  Mr.  Arthitr  Feversham  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Sir ;  and  I  will  answer  you  to  the 

;  best  of  my  ability.  The  night  before  the  mar- 
riage a  gentleman  called  on  me  at  my  house, 

j  and  told  me  that  his  friend  Mr.  Feversham  was 
going  to  be  married  to  a  young  lady  named  Free- 
man the  next  morning  in  St.  Dunstan's  church. 
He  said  Mr.  Feversham  had  obtained  a  license 
through  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hobart  (the  late  rector  of 
the  parish  of  St.  Dunstan's,  and  one  of  the  Sur- 
rogates of  the  diocese),  and  that  Mr.  Hobart  had 
promised  to  officiate.  He  then  said  to  me  that 
there  were  reasons  which  made  Mr.  Feversham 
wish  that  the  ceremony  should  be  as  private  as 
possible  ;  and  he  therefore  asked  me  to  keep  the 
('mors  of  the  church  shut,  and  also  the  iron  gates 
of  the  church-yard  closed  to  the  public,  and  to 
ailmit  no  one.  I  said  I  should  be  happy  to  act 
in  accordance  with  his  wishes.  He  then  put  ten 
sovereigns  on  the  table,  and  he  requested  me  to 
take  them  as  my  fee.  I  said,  'That  is  a  very 
large  fee.  Sir.'  He  answered,  '  It  is ;  but  do  not 
hesitate  to  take  it,  for  I  am  a  rich  man,  and  I 

j  sec  that  you  are  a  person  w  ho,  having  taken  a 
good  fee  from  me,  will  feel  it  incumbent  on  your 
honor  to  perform  thoroughly  what  you  inider- 
takc  to  do.'  So  I  took  the  fee,  and  promised  to 
attend  to  his  wishes.  I  saw  no  reason  why  I 
should  not  do  so.  Mr.  Hobart,  the  rector,  was  to 
officiate,  and  had  moreover  granted  the  license ; 


OLIVE  BLAKES  GOOD  WORK. 


167 


I  therefore  had  no  grounds  to  suspect  any  thing 
wrong.  A  secret  marriajje  need  not  be  a  wrong 
undertaking.  A  gentleman  of  great  expecta- 
tions may  wish  to  marry  a  jjoor  lady,  and  at  the 
same  time  wish  to  keep  his  marriage  unknown 
to  powerful  relations  wlio  would  be  offended  at 
tlie  lady's  poverty.  But  still,  Sir,  all  this  had 
nothing  to  do  with  my  duties  as  clerk.  I  only 
mention  these  matters,  as  they  show  why  I  did 
readily  what  I  was  ordered  to  do." 

"  Well  ?     The  marriage  took  place." 

"Yes,  Sir.  The  only  ])ersons  present  in  the 
church  were  Mr.  Arthur  Fevershani,  Miss  Jean- 
nette  Freeman,  myself,  the  two  witnesses,  and 
the  officiating  clergyman.  The  two  witnesses 
were  a  lady  named  Ann  Walker,  and  the  gentle- 
man (named  Herbert  Johnson)  who  had  called 
upon  me  on  the  previous  night.  Mr.  Arthur 
Feversham  I  had  not  seen  before  I  ])ut  my  eyes 
on  him  in  the  church ;  but  after  the  marriage  I 
found  out  that  he  had  had  rooms  for  at  least  a 
couple  of  months  at  the  '  Warwick  Arms, '  though 
he  only  inhabited  them  part  of  the  time.  Mr. 
Arthur  Feversham  didn't  sleep  at  the  'Warwick 
Arms'  the  night  before  his  marriage.  He  came 
into  Birmingham,  posting,  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, bringing  with  him  the  old  lady  named  Ann 
Walker.  Leaving  his  carriage  at  the  '  Warwick 
Arms,'  he  walked  with  the  old  lady  down  to  the 
church,  and  there  I  saw  her  walking  up  and 
down  before  the  church-yard  rails  on  the  pave- 
ment. I  saw  her  as  I  entered  the  church  to  get 
all  ready  for  the  wedding.  She  came  up  to 
me,  and  said,  '  Let  me  into  the  church,  please  ; 
there  is  going  to  be  a  wedding.'  'I  can't  let 
you  in,'  I  said,  '  for  the  public  are  not  to  be  ad- 
mitted.' 'But,' she  said,  'lam  one  of  the  party. 
Mr.  Feversham  has  brought  me  witli  him  to  wit- 
ness the  marriage.'  So  1  let  her  into  the  church. 
I  had  not  as  yet  seen  Jlr.  Feversham.  It  was 
while  I  was  dusting  and  getting  the  church  ready 
that  the  old  lady  told  me  about  Mr.  Feversham 
having  left  his  carriage  at  the  'Warwick Arms,' 
and  having  led  her  to  the  gate  of  the  church- 
yard, and  having  gone  back  to  the  'Warwick 
Arms'  to  see  the  lady  to  whom  he  was  about  to 
be  married." 

"Exactly.  Describe  to  me  the  appearance 
of  Mr.  Herbert  Johnson." 

"He  was  a  very  tall,  thin,  and  tanned  gentle- 
man. I  don't  think  I  ever  saw^  a  man  more  sun- 
burned. I  may  add,  that  I  found  out  after  the 
marriage  that  Mr.  Herbert  Johnson  had  brought 
Miss  Freeman  to  the  '  Warwick  Arms'  about  an 
hour  before  he  called  at  my  house  and  made  ar- 
rangements about  the  wedding — that  is,  on  the 
night  before  the  wedding." 

" I  understand.     Goon." 

"Well,  Sir,  the  wedding  took  place  in  the 
visual  way,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Hobart.(who  has 
been  dead  more  than  ten  years)  performing  the 
ceremony.  The  party  came  into  the  vestry  to 
sign  the  register.  I  saw  Mr.  Feversham  sign 
his  name ;  and  immediately  he  had  done  it  he 
asked  me  to  go  and  see  that  the  carriages  were 
ready.  Mr.  Hobart  said,  '  By  all  means,  God- 
frey, do  so.'  I  therefore  went.  When  I  return- 
ed the  party  were  already  walking  down  the  aisle 
to  leave  the  church.  I  went  straight  to  the  ves- 
try, and  saw  I\Ir.  Hobart  engaged  in  drawing 
out  an  attested  co]iy  of  the  certificate.  It  did 
not  take  him  half  a  minute  to  finish.     'There, 


Godfrey,'  he  said,  '  run  with  that  to  Mr,  Fever- 
sham. He  is  in  a  hurry,  and  waiting  for  it  in 
his  carriage.'  Of  course  I  did  as  I  was  told. 
When  1  got  to  the  church-door  (where  not  a 
minute  before  I  had  left  two  carriages)  the  fore- 
most carriage  was  gene.  I  ran  to  the  second 
carriage  and  looked  in.  'Oh  I'  said  Mr.  Fever- 
sham, showing  his  face,  'you  have  brought  the 
attested  copy?'  I  answered,  'Yes,  Sir,'  and 
gave  him  the  copy;  and  in  another  minute  I 
went  back  to  the  vestry,  feeling  surprised." 

"At  what?" 

"That  Mr.  Feversham  should  have  left  the 
church  with  the  old  lady  named  Ann  Walker, 
and  not  with  his  bride." 

"  Certainly  a  most  reasonable  ground  of  sur- 
prise." 

"It  seemed  to  me  to  be  very  strange,"  rejoin- 
ed JNIr.  Godfrey,  "but  I  accounted  for  it  l)y  su])- 
posing  that  Mr.  Feversham  was  afraid  he  might 
be  recognized  on  the  road  by  his  friends,  who, 
if  they  saw  him  traveling  with  a  pretty  young 
lady,  might  suspect  he  was  married  to  her.  Still 
it  seemed  an  excess  of  caution." 

"Did  not  you,"  asked  IVIr.  Castleton,  turning 
to  the  maid,  "say  something  about  a  glove?" 

"Ay,  Sir,  "put  in  Mr.  Godfrey,  before  the  wo- 
man could  answer  the  question  for  herself,  '"I 
was  going  back  to  the  vestry,  when  I  met  Mr. 
Hobart  hurrying  down  the  aisle  with  a  kid  glove 
in  his  hand.  '  Godfrey,' he  said,  'Mr.  Fever- 
sham has  dropped  one  of  his  gloves.'  'Well, 
Sir,'  I  said,  '  the  gentleman  has  gone.  It  is  too 
late  to  give  it  to  him  now.'  So  I\Ir.  Hobart  let 
the  glove  fall  and  I  picked  it  up  and  kept  it. 
Of  course  I  was  curious  about  this  wedding; 
and  having  an  acquaintance  with  Miss  Brown" 
(pointing  to  the  maid),  "I  saw  her,  and  wc 
talked  it  all  over,  she  and  I  comparing  notes  with 
each  other.  When  I  told  her  about  the  gentle- 
man's '  kid  glove, '  she  told  me  about  the  lady's 
'  ]iocket-handkerchief.'  And  we  have  often,  for 
all  these  3'ears  since,  had  a  joke  about  our  treas- 
ures, wondering  whether  any  thing  would  come 
of  tiiem." 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Castleton  to  Miss  Brown, 
"do  you  think  that  after  all  this  lapse  of  years 
you  should  be  able  to  recognize  Mr.  Feversham?" 

"I  would  not  say  positively,  Sir.  Time  alters 
people  wonderfully ;  but  I  think  I  should  know 
him.  He  was  not  an  ill-looking  gentleman,  but 
he  had  a  blemish  on  his  face  that  I  think  I 
should  know  him  by  again.  His  upper  lip  was 
slightly  scarred  as  if  he  had  a  wound  upon  it." 

"I  am  sure  I  should  know  him  again,"  said 
Mr.  Godfrey,  confidently,  "by  a  different  sign. 
While  the  wedding  was  going  on  I  had  to 
stand  outside  the  rails  of  the  communion-table, 
and  just  behind  Mi-.  Feversham.  That  was  my 
place.  Well,  Sir,  j\Ir.  Feversham  wore  his  light 
hair  long,  so  that  I  couldn't  see  the  back  of  his 
neck,  as  the  hair  ordinarily  hung.  But  once 
during  the  service  he  stirred  a  little  (nervous, 
pcrhajis),  and  put  his  right  hand  to  the  back  of 
Ids  neck,  and  stroked  his  light  curls  down. 
Well,  Sir,  as  he  did  that  I  saw  on  his  fiesh  un- 
der the  ends  of  the  curls,  and  just  above  the 
back  of  his  white  shirt-collar,  a  crimson  mark — 
a  scar.  I  quite  started  ;  it  was  such  a  fierce  red 
color." 

As  the  man  said  this  T  started ;  for  I  recog- 
nized the  movement  he  described  as  one  of  Lord 


168 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK 


Bvlii'ld's  nervous,  fulgety  trit-ks,  which  I  had 
ilivlikcil  as  girl  and  woman.  When  he  was  ani- 
uialed  in  conversation,  or  was  excited  with  phiy- 
ing  cards,  for  instance,  he  used  to  he  continual- 
ly touching  his  long  liair;  and  I,  like  the  man, 
had  often,  seen  with  repugnance  the  red  scar  so 
revealed. 

"Mr.  Godfrey  and  Miss  Brown,"  said  Mr. 
Castleton  lastly,  walking  round  the  room  in  the 
Jirection  of  Etty,  who  still  sat  apart  from  us, 
closely  veiled,  "would  you  know  Miss  Freeman 
if  you  saw  her,  think  you?  3Iiss  Annette,  draw 
off  your  veil  and  bonnet — quick,  my  dear  young 
lady!" 

Etty  did  as  she  was  bidden ;  tlie  haste  with 
which  she  obeyed  her  orders  causing  her  fingers 
to  catch  in  her  hair,  so  that  she  not  only  pulled 
off  her  veil  and  bonnet,  but  at  the  same  time 
also  pullctl  down  her  rich,  warm,  golden  tresses. 

"Why,"  exclaimed  both  tiie  man  and  woman 
together,  "'tis  she — it's  Miss  Freeman  !" 

''  Dare  you  swear  it  ?"  asked  Mr.  Castleton  of 
the  maid. 

"Yes,  Sir,  tl.at  I  darj,''  answered  Miss  Brown, 
"though  I  didn't  see  much  of  the  lady,  and  she 
wouldn't  let  me  help  her  witii  her  toilet." 

"Dare  you  swear  that  is  the  lady  who  was 
married  to  Mr.  Feversham?"  then  inquired  Mr. 
Castleton  of  the  clerk,  who  was  steadily  scruti- 
nizing Etty. 

"I  would  swear  to  her  in  any  court  of  jus- 
tice," said  the  man,  earnestly. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


MV   POWER. 


The  story  which  it  is  the  object  of  these  pages 
to  tell  would  be  in  nowise  developed  or  illustra- 
ted by  my  giving  all  the  details  of  the  conversa- 
tions that  ])assed  between  myself  and  Etty  on  the 
one  hand,  and  the  clerk  of  St.  Dunstan's  and  the 
maid  of  the  "Warwick  Arms"  on  the  other. 
The  result  of  them  is  suilticient  for  the  public. 

I  took  Etty  to  the  church,  and  immediately 
she  entered  it  she  recognized  the  sacred  interior 
that  had  been  indelibly  jn-intcd  on  her  memory. 
We  stopped  only  one  night  in  Birmingham,  re- 
turning to  London  l)y  an  early  train,  so  that  we 
arrived  at  our  destination  before  mid-da}\  In 
lier  traveling-case  Etty  held  possession  of  the 
handkerchief  which  she  had  left  more  than  four- 
teen years  before  in  the  "Warwick  Arms." 
The  light-pink  kid  glove,  dro])pcd  by  Mr.  Ar- 
thur I'etersham  in  the  church  on  the  occasion 
of  the  marriage,  was  in  Mr.  Castleton's  keeping. 
Occu])ying  a  seat  in  the  same  railway-carriage 
with  ourselves  was  Mr.  Godfrey,  the  clerk,  who 
at  Mr.  Castleton's  request  had  obtained  permis- 
sion from  his  rector  to  visit  London  for  a  couple 
of  nights. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  Euston  Square  Rail- 
way Station  Mr.  Castleton  put  me  and  Etty  into 
a  cab,  which  conveyed  us  straight  to  Fulham 
Villa;  Mr.  Castleton  bidding  us  farewell  for  a 
few  hours,  and  taking  Mr.  Godfrey  with  him  to 
his  house. 

In  the  evening  Mr.  Castleton  came  alone  to 
my  villa,  and  found  me  in  conversation  with 
Dr.  Clarges  and  Etty. 

"Well,   Castleton,"  cried  Dr.   Clarges,  im- 


mediately Mr.  Castleton  made  his  appearance, 
"have  you  any  further  discoveries  to  report? 
Of  course  these  ladies  have  told  me  every  thing 
that  had  transpired  when  you  ran  away  from 
them  at  the  Euston  Square  Station.  Tell  me 
news,  or  tell  me  nothing." 

"How  frail  and  brittle  is  the  covering  with 
which  the  darkest  and  most  mysterious  crimes 
are  concealed!"  observed  my  splendid  solicitor, 
in  a  sententious  and  moralizing  strain.  "The 
evidence  of  the  wicked  deed  is  packed  up  in  a 
small  space,  as  kid  gloves  are  ])acked  by  French 
milliners  into  nut-shells,  and  it  is  very  hard  to 
find  it.  The  detective  goes  about  the  world 
picking  up  nuts  and  cracking  them,  but  not  one 
nut  in  a  thousand  contains  the  kid  glove  for 
which  he  is  looking.  But  when  he  does  get  the 
right  nut  the  shell  is  cracked  and  broken  in  a 
twinkling,  and  out  comes  the  kid  glove." 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Dr.  Clarges,  in  high 
spirits.  "The  poetry  of  law!  Sentimental  re- 
flections by  a  successful  legal  practitioner  I  But 
speak  no  more  parables.  Give  us  the  history  of 
the  ])ink  kid  r/love ;  at  least  if  jou  have  a  verita- 
ble history  to  entertain  ns  with." 

"I  traced  it  to  Lord  Bytield  in  half  an  hour," 
answered  Mr.  Castleton,  triumphantly.  "Of 
course  the  evidence  I  will  now  lay  before  you  is 
superfluous  and  needless.  But  I  have  an  artistic 
pleasure  in  making  a  case  com])lete  and  thor- 
oughly finished  at  every  point.  That  glove  was 
one  of  JMerlin's — the  Regent  Street  glover.  Mer- 
lin is  one  of  my  clients.  So  I  go  (knowing  the 
man  well)  straight  to  him,  and  say,  '  Mr.  Mer- 
lin, had  you,  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  since,  Mr. 
Arthur  Betersham,  now  Lord  Bylield  (the  great 
banker),  on  your  books  as  a  customer?'  'He 
has  been  our  customer  for  thirty  years,'  answers 
the  glover.  'Then  be  good  enough,  my  dear 
Mr.  Merlin,'  I  say,  'to  refer  back  in  your  books 
to  October  IS — ,  and  see  if  in  or  shortly  before 
that  month  you  su])plied  Lord  Byfield  with  any 
gloves.'  '1  will  do  so,'  responds  Mr.  Merlin, 
proceeding  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  an  old 
ledger.  'Let  me  see,  the  year  18 — !  ha,  ha! 
Arthur  Petersham,  Esquire !  To  be  sure,  Mr. 
Castleton,  18 —  was  the  year  in  which  light-pink 
kid  gloves  were  so  much  in  fashion  with  the  dan- 
dies, and  I  sent  Mr.  Arthur  Petersham,  in  the 
month  of  Sei)tember,  in  the  year  you  mention, 
four  cases  of  such  gloves,  each  case  containing  a 
dozen.'  'Perhaps  that  was  one  of  them,  JNIr. 
Merlin,'  I  say,  taking  tlie  glove  out  of  my  pocket. 
'No  doubt,'  he  said;  'there's  my  trade  mark 
upon  it.  And  do  you  see  that  catch  on  the 
glove?'  'Yes.'  'That  was  a  foolish  invention 
of  mine.  It  was  intended  to  supersede  the  old 
button  and  button-hole.  That  invention  of  mine 
had  just  three  weeks'  existence.  I  had  the  catch 
]>uton  hundreds  of  dozens  of  gloves,  but  it  turned 
out  so  badly,  and  we  had  so  many  comjilaiiits 
made  about  it  by  customers,  that  I  had  to  set 
hands  to  work  to  take  my  j)ct  catch  off  the  gloves, 
and  furnish  them  with  the  old-fashioned  means 
of  fastening.'  'That  freak  of  invention,'  I  ob- 
serve, '  must  have  cost  you  a  considerable  amount 
of  money.'  'Oil,  the  money  I  spent  on  the  pat- 
ent, and  manufacture,  and  fitting  of  my  useless 
catches  was  no  matter.  The  worst  jiart  of  the 
failtire  was  the  loss  of  tem])er  it  occasioned  me. 
By  tlie  end  of  three  weeks  from  the  time  that  I 
saw  tlie  first  catch  used  I  had  not  one  of  the 


OI.IVE  r>LAKE'8  GOOD  WORK. 


169 


silly  contrivances  in  my  stock.'  '  jVuJ  it  was 
duriii!;  tliat  ])L'riod  oftlirec  weeks  you  sent  four 
boxes  of  them  to  Mr.  rotersham.'  '  Exactly  so  ; 
but  what  makes  you  so  curious  about  sucli  a 
trifle  ?'  '  Oh,  notliin<!;,  only  curiosity, '  I  answer. 
'So  I  supposed,'  rejoins  Mr.  Merlin,  dryly." 

"IIow  wonderful  and  merciful  an  arrange- 
ment it  is,"  I  observed,  '•  that  guilt  can  not  hide 
its  own  traces !" 

"  And,"  added  Dr.  Clarges,  "how  much  more 
Monderful,  and  much  more  merciful  an  arrange- 
ment it  is  that  virtue  is  equally  powerless!" 

"Dear Dr.  Clarges,"  Etty  said,  softly,  "good- 
night ;  Mr.  Castleton,  good-night.  My  boy  will 
one  day  thank  you  as  I  could  wish  to  do  my- 
self!" 

She  moved  to  the  door,  which  Mr.  Castleton, 
rising,  opened  for  her.  As  she  passed  my  chair 
she  stooped  down  and  kissed  me,  whis])ering  as 
she  did  so,  '•  Olive,  come  to  me  before  you  go  to 
bed  ;  come  and  say  prayers  with  me." 

When  Etty  had  taken  her  departure  Dr. 
Clarges  inquired  of  Mr.  Castleton,  ''What  do 
you  intend  to  do  with  the  clerk,  Godfrey?" 

"  Will  you  be  at  the  soiree  of  the  Royij,l  Soci- 
ety at  the'rresident's  house  to-morrow  evening?" 
rejoined  the  solicitor. 

"Yes,"  replied  Dr.  Clarges. 

"  So  will  Lord  Byfield.  lie  has  promised  the 
President  to  attend." 

"Well?" 

"So  will  I  also  be  there.  So  also  will  Mr. 
Godfrey." 

"Ah!  I  understand." 

"I  sliall  say  to  Godfrey,  'Now  walk  among 
this  assemblage  of  gentlemen,  and  if  you  think 
you  see  Mr.  Arthur  Feversham,  just  inform  me 
of  the  circumstance!'  I  had  thought  of  intro- 
ducing him  to  the  '  Monmouth,'  which  is  Lord 
Byfield's  favorite  whist  club,  but  we  should  not 
be  so  secure  of  seeing  him  there,  and  we  should 
run  greater  risk  of  provoking  observation.  God- 
frey will  pass  muster  admirably  at  the  soiree. 
The  ditierence  in  appearance  between  a  savant 
and  a  parish  clerk  is  often  but  slight." 

"An  admirable  arrangement!" 

Tiie  next  evening  was  the  soiree  of  the  Royal 
Society,  and  on  the  morning  succeeding  the 
soire'e  Mr.  Castleton  rode  his  roan  cob  over  to 
Fulham  and  gave  mo  a  call  before  breakfast. 

"  The  experiment  of  last  evening  succeeded 
ailmirably,"  he  said.  "I  took  him  so  that  we 
arrived  just  in  the  fullest  of  the  crush.  Lord 
Byfield  never  goes  early  any  where.  We  passed 
half  a  dozen  times  through  Lord  Marshalhaven's 
brilliant  suit  of  rooms  without  meeting  the  object 
of  our  search.  ^lore  than  one  F.R.S.,  as  he 
shook  hands  with  me,  whispered,  '  Who  is  your 
friend?  Is  he  one  of  lis?'  I  sujjpose  we  had 
been  there  an  hour  when  Godfrey  touched  my 
arm,  and  was  ])roceeding  to  point  with  his  finger 
to  Lord  Byfield  (who  had  just  entered  the  assem- 
bly). Luckily  I  prevented  him  from  doing  that, 
and  said,  '  Lead  me  through  the  room,  and  when 
we  pass  Mr.  Feversham  squeeze  my  arm.'  Act- 
ing on  these  instructions,  Godfrey  led  me  close 
past  Lord  Byfield  (who  was  carrying  on  an  ani- 
mated conversation  with  the  Lord  Ciianccllor), 
and  squeezed  my  arm  as  he  did  so.  Lord  By- 
field's  eye  caught  mine,  and  he  recognized  me, 
though  we  had  not  met  each  other  for  at  least 
eight  years.     'Ah,  ah,  C-Castleton,'  he  said, 


holding  out  his  hand  to  me,  '  I-I'm  g-glad  to 
see  you!  W-why  d-don't  you  ever  come  and 
see  me  in  riccadiily?'  I  rcsi)onded  to  tliis  ad- 
dress by  slightly  shaking  his  hand  and  making  a 
civil  speech  of  a  few  words  ;  Out  I  luas  mrefulnot 
to  address  him  by  his  title.  Thou  I  and  my  com- 
panion proceeded  to  the  door,  where  we  turned 
round  and  took  a  back  view  of  Lord  Byfield, 
still  talking  to  the  Lord  Chancellor.  Perhaps 
my  appearance,  reminding  him  of  old  times,  had 
agitated  Lord  Byfield  ;  Ijut  any  how,  as  we  look- 
ed at  him  from  behind,  he  had  recourse  to  his 
old  nervous,  fidgety  trick  of  smoothing  his  long 
hair,  which  I  doubt  not  he  wears  long  for  the 
express  purpose  of  hiding  the  scar  of  the  sur- 
geon's knife  on  the  back  of  his  neck.  He  stroked 
his  locks,  and  as  he  did  so  I  and  Godfrey  saw 
the  crimson  of  the  old  wound.  We  exchanged 
significant  glances,  and  then  I  led  my  compan- 
ion out  of  the  assembly.  On  the  staircase,  as 
we  were  leaving  Lord  Marshalhaven's  house,  he 
said,  'Then  you  know  ilr.  Feversham?'  'Oh 
yes,'  I  answered,  carelessly,  'he  is  an  old  friend 
of  mine.    Didn't  you  see  how  we  shook  hands?' " 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"The  clerk?" 

"Yes." 

'■He  is  on  his  way  back  to  Birmingham.  I 
sent  him  oft"  by  the  early  seven  o'clock  a.m.  train, 
with  twenty  guineas  in  his  pocket  ' 

"Are  you  sure  that  he  does  not  know  who 
IMr.  Arthur  Feversham  really  is  ?" 

"Quite." 

" Tliat  the  mystery  is  all  our  own?" 

"It  is  all  our  own,"  observed  Mr.  Castleton; 
' '  and  I  don't  see  how  any  one,  without  our  per- 
mission, is  to  share  it  with  us.  Sir  George 
Watchit  and  the  clergyman  are  dead ;  the  aged 
female  witness  (Ann  Walker,  or  Mrs.  Spencer, 
or  whoever  she  was)  is  also  doubtless  dead  by 
this  time.  The  clerk  and  the  maid-servant  are 
never  likely  to  cross  Lord  Byfield's  path ;  and 
with  the  exception  of  you,  me.  Dr.  Clarges,  our 
friend  Annette,  and  Lord  Byfield  himself,  there 
is  not  a  person  in  all  the  world  who  even  sus- 
pects the  crime  that  has  been  pei-petrated.  As 
for  Dr.  Hankinson,  he  has  been  completely  mys- 
tified by  Dr.  Clarges.  Dr.  Hankinson  is  quite 
convinced  in  his  own  mind  of  his  old  patient's 
insanity  on  one  subject ;  and  if  he  at  all  suspects 
Miss  Blake  of  Fulham  to  have  once  been  Lady 
Byfield,  he  only  imagines  that  you  are  taking 
care  of  the  'mad  woman'  in  the  amiable  and 
wifoly  hope  of  making  her  an  instrument  of  in- 
flicting pain  on  your  husband.  All  the  proofs 
are  in  your  hands.  You  can  reduce  Lord  By- 
field  to  the  rank  of  a  felon.  You  can  force  him 
to  accept  any  terms  you  like  to  offer.  The  proofs 
are  yours,  do  what  you  like  with  them." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MY    PLE.\SUUE. 

Mr.  Castleton's  last  words  were,  "The 
proofs  are  yours,  do  what  you  like  with  them." 

I  proceeded  to  do  my  pleasure  with  them, 
and  what  my  pleasure  was  shall  be  told  in  this 
chapter. 

It  was  on  the  2d  of  June,  in  tlie  fifteenth  year 
after  Etty's  flight  from  Laughton,  and  the  hour 


170 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


was  ten  o'clock  p.m.,  when  I  alij^hted  from  my 
carri:igc  at  Hyde  Park,  near  A])sley  House,  and 
told  the  servants  to  drive  strai,L;lit  hack  to  Ful- 
ham  Villa,  as  I  should  not  want  them  again  that 
evening.  As  soon  as  my  horses  and  servants 
were  out  of  sight  I  walked  quickly  along  Picca- 
dilly, under  the  trees,  on  the  park  side  of  the 
thoroughfare,  till  I  came  opposite  to  Lord  By- 
field's  mansion.  To  my  vexation  I  found  the 
recei)tion-rooms  hrilliant  with  illuminations,  and 
the  road  hefore  the  house  (already,  at  ten  o'clock) 
blocked  up  with  carriages.  The  lord  of  the 
mansion  was  clearly  giving  an  entertainment  of 
unusual  splendor,  and  I  had  been  misled  in  form- 
ing my  arrangements ;  most  probably  my  serv- 
ants and  Lord  Byfield's  having  unconsciously 
mystified  each  other  by  some  such  ordinary 
phrase  as  "that  Lord  By  field  would  be  'at 
home'  on  the  2d."  Anj'  how  I  had  come  from 
Fulham  to  Piccadilly  in  the  expectation  of  catch- 
ing Lord  Byfield  alone  in  his  residence  on  his 
return  from  his  whist  club,  and  behold,  Peter- 
sTiam  House  stood  before  me,  lucent  from  garret 
to  basement,  crowded  with  guests,  and  every 
minute  receiving  a  fresh  influx  of  patrician  vis- 
itors from  the  carriages  that  continued  without 
cessation  to  "draw  up"  and  "set  down  I"  It 
was  strange  that  I  had  not  seen  any  announce- 
ment of  the  approach  of  such  festivity  in  the 
fjishionable  "morning  paper!"  It  was  strange 
that  I  should  have  been  misled  at  all  on  such  a 
simple  matter  affecting  my  hushancVs  domestic 
arrangements.  There  was,  however,  only  one 
thing  for  me  to  do  (since  I  was  bent  on  seeing 
Lord  Byfield  that  night) — to  wait,  namely,  imtil 
his  visitors  had  departed. 

Fortunately  it  was  a  beautiful  June  evening 
(such  an  evening  as  is  rai-ely  experienced  in  early 
June),  dry,  cloudless,  and  withoiit  a  breath  of 
east  wind.  The  moon  was  up  in  the  quiet  heav- 
ens, covering  with  soft  .ett'ulgence  the  green 
sweeps  and  foliage  of  the  parks  and  the  roofs 
of  the  palaces  in  Piccadilly,  under  which,  on  the 
hard,  clean  road,  the  equipages  chased  each  oth- 
er to  and  fro,  with  a  steady  current  of  pedestri- 
ans flowing  along  upon  the  foot-paths  of  either 
side,  under  the  mei'ry  garish  street  lamps.  So 
I  resolved  to  wait  patiently  till  Lord  Byfield's 
labors  of  hospitality  should  come  to  a  close. 

His  guests  were  both  distinguished  and  nu- 
merous. The  armorial  devices  on  the  carriages 
which  brought  to  Petersham  House  that  night  a 
perfect  mob  of  haughty  dames,  brilliant  with  the 
flash  of  diamonds,  and  gi-aceful,  timid  girls  peer- 
ing about  with  dazzled  eyes  at  the  wonders  of 
their  "first  season,"  showed  that  Lord  Byfield 
had  outlived  the  temporary  disgrace  of  the  scan- 
dal of  more  than  nine  years  since.  He  had  been 
pardoned.  English  society  is  not  uncharitable  ; 
it  often  pardons  ofi"enders — and  when  it  has  so 
generously  pardoned  them,  it  sometimes  falls 
into  the  grave  error  of  loving  them  somewhat 
too  dearly,  not  out  of  memory  of  their  sins,  but 
out  of  memory  of  the  generosity  with  which  those 
sins  were  forgiven. 

Keeping  my  veil  close  over  my  face,  I  walked 
up  and  down  Constitution  Hill,  Park  Lane, 
Audlcy  Street,  and  such  like  thoroughfares, 
surveying  the  palaces  in  which,  years  before,  I 
was  a  constant  visitor.  The  season  was  at  its 
height.  There  were  several  great  affairs  going 
on  in  the  mansions  of  the  aristocracy,  but  of 


them  all  "the  ball"  at  Petersham  House  was 
the  event  of  the  evening. 

At  twelve  o'clock  the  rout  was  at  its  height. 
The  omnibuses  and  hackney-carriages  had  al- 
most disappeared  from  the  thoroughfares  of  that 
patrician  quarter;  but  the  number  of  private 
equipages  rumbling  over  Macadam's  crushed 
stone,  or  clattering  over  the  granite  blocks,  in- 
creased with  the  jx^ssage  of  every  minute.  The 
carriages  were  still  employed  in  bringing  guests ; 
and  before  the  doors  of  Petersham  House  were 
gathered  a  crowd  of  poor  people,  who  amused 
themselves  with  cheering  the  fresh  arrivals,  and 
striving  to  get  glimpses  of  the  ladies  as  they 
tripped  from  the  concealment  of  their  carriages 
to  the  concealment  of  the  awning  that  ran  from 
the  entrance  of  the  house  down  to  the  pave- 
ment. "  They  had  better  be  in  bed,  poor  creat- 
ures!" I  said  to  myself,  looking  at  the  crowd. 
And  then  the  reflection  shot  across  me  that,  per- 
haps, many  of  them  had  not  a  bed  to  go  to. 

Then  I  left  Piccadilly  for  a  short  time,  and 
wandered  quite  alone  under  the  rails  of  Hj'de 
Park,  recalling  all  the  fixcts  that  I  knew  of  Lord 
Byfield's  career  since  I  had  separated  my  life 
from  his.  I  was  familiar  with  much  of  it. — Hav- 
ing attained  the  especial  dignity  which  he  and 
his  father  before  him  had  aimed  at  winning  by 
the  possession  of  land.  Lord  Byfield  had  steadily 
followed  out  the  purpose  of  his  life — to  make 
himself  the  most  powerful  banker  of  the  coun- 
try, and  one  of  the  most  imjiortant  monetary 
powers  of  Eui-ope.  Caring  nothing  for  the  solid 
substance  of  territorial  position  so  long  as  he  en- 
joyed the  titles  of  territorial  rank,  he  had,  as 
occasion  served,  converted  his  various  landed 
properties  back  into  personal  estate,  so  that  he 
might  have  the  greater  funds  at  command  to 
carry  on  his  vast  undertakings.  He  still  re- 
tained Burstead  House,  in  Hampshire,  with  its 
noble  park  and  small  estate — the  rental  of  which 
was  not  at  the  utmost  £5000  per  annum  ;  but 
otherwise  he  had  not  a  rood  of  freehold  land  that 
he  could  call  his  own.  He  did  not  want  a  long 
list  of  clownish  tenants,  paying  their  rents  out 
of  turnip  husbandry,  or  rendering  tribute  from 
fatted  pigs.  That  was  not  his  ambition.  The 
men  he  wished  to  have  bowing  before  him.  and 
asking  in  humble  terms  for  the  privilege  of  util- 
izing his  vast  wealth,  were  monarchs  and  their 
ministers.  These,  and  not  the  rude  boors  of 
barbarous  provinces,  were  to  be  his  trilnitarics, 
and  pay  him  fealty !  Such  was  his  aim,  and  he 
had  achieved  it. 

At  two  o'clock  the  number  of  carriages  was 
rajjidly  lessening  before  Petersham  House.  Ev- 
ery minute  an  equipage  drove  off  from  the  en- 
trance, and  no  "fresh  arrivals"  replaced  "the 
dejiarlures."  At  a  quarter  to  three  the  windows 
wei"e  still  as  bright  as  ever,  and  the  music  of  the 
band  playing  to  the  dancers  still  continued  ;  but 
the  crowd  before  the  house  had  so  thinned  that 
I  said  to  myself,  "Lord  Byfield's  most  di.-^tin- 
guished  guests  have  taken  their  departure. 
Tliose  who  remain  arc  the  less  important  jicople : 
and  he  (according  to  his  old  wont  on  such  occa- 
sions) has  retired  to  his  library  for  solitude  and 
rest,  and  even  a  nap,  before  s.aying  a  final  fare- 
well to  the  most  persevering  of  the  dancers.  I 
will  now  go  into  the  house  and  see  him." 

So  saying,  I  worked  my  way  through  the  crowd 
and  was  taking  a  first  step  under  the  awning. 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


171 


when  a  servant  in  livoiy  stationed  there  said, 
"This  is  not  public,  ma'am." 

"  I  am  a  friend  of  Lord  Byfield's,"  I  answered. 

"What  name,  ma'am,  please?" 

To  this  inquiry,  civilly  put  by  the  man  in  the 
proper  discharge  of  his  duty,  I  answered  by  draw- 
ing up  my  veil  and  showing  him  my  face.  For 
a  few  seconds  he  did  not  remember  me ;  but 
when  I  whispered,  "I  am  Lady  Byfield,  your 
old  mistress,"  he  started  back  with  astonishment, 
and  making  me  a  respectful  salute  allowed  me 
to  pass  on  without  further  question. 

I  ascended  the  high  flight  of  steps,  and  pass- 
ing over  the  threshold  encountered  the  old  por- 
ter, sleej)y  and  exhausted  with  his  night's  work. 

"  Is  Lord  Byfield  in  the  library  ?"  I  inquired 
of  the  old  man. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  my  lady  ;  and  at  this  time 
of  night !" 

"Is  Lord  Byfield  in  the  library?"  I  repeated, 
quietly. 

"Yes,  my  lady,  I  believe  he  is." 

"Alone? — is  he  alone?" 

"Oh  yes,  my  lady;  he  is  taking  a  nap,  and 
mayn't  be  disturbed." 

"I  will  go  to  him." 

"Here,  John!"  cried  the  porter  to  one  of  the 
footmen  standing  about  the  hall  in  Lord  Byfield's 
livery. 

"No,  no,"  I  said,  seeing  the  porter's  object. 
"  I  require  no  one  to  conduct  me.  Surely  I  can 
find  my  way  about  my  own  house." 

Little  noise  as  I  made  iu  speaking  to  the  por- 
ter, my  appearance  I  saw  created  a  sensation 
among  the  by-standers.  Habited  in  a  plain,  so- 
ber walking  costume,  I  stood  in  marked  contrast 
to  two  pretty  girls  who  glided  past  me  in  ^vhite 
silk  dresses,  with  their  bright  opera  hoods  only 
in  part  concealing  their  snowy  shoulders.  Each 
of  the  girls  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  mus- 
tached  cavalier,  who  seemed  well  to  enjoy  the 
task  of  leading  so  elegant  a  creature  to  her  car- 
riage. There  were  other  people  (not  servants) 
in  the  hall  and  on  the  staircase ;  but  though  1 
had  a  lively  sensation  of  being  stared  at  by  peo- 
ple who  recognized  me,  I  distinguished  no  one 
as  an  old  acquaintance. 

In  less  than  two  minutes  I  had  opened  the  li- 
brary door  and  entered  the  room,  which  was  light- 
ed with  lamps  suspended  from  the  lofty  ceiling. 
The  lamps  were  surrounded  with  pink  silk  shades, 
so  that  the  rays  they  emitted  were  rendered  very 
pleasant  to  the  eye,  and  gave  a  delicate  rose  tint 
to  the  paper  and  ceiling  of  the  room. 

"  A-ha !  wh-who  i-is  there  ?"  said  Lord  By- 
field,  springing  up  from  the  sofa  on  which  he  was 
reclining  as  I  entered  and  closed  the  door  behind 
me. 

He  was  in  evening  costume,  and  doubtless  sup- 
posed at  first  that  I  was  only  a  guest,  who  had 
mistaken  my  way  through  the  hall  and  passages, 
and  had  entered  a  room  not  just  then  devoted  to 
the  uses  of  hospitality.  But  when  he  saw  me  in 
my  ordinary  walking  costume  he  was  undeceived. 

"Wh-what!"  he  exclaimed.  "Wh-what! 
L-Lady  Byfield!" 

"  Yes,  my  lord.  This  is  a  strange  hour  to 
break  upon  you  in.  But  my  particular  business 
must  be  my  apology  for  disturbing  you." 

' '  B-business,  L-Lady  Byfield  ?  I  thought  all 
our  business  with  each  other  had  ceased  at  your 
request.     But  I  am  yours  to  command." 


"  I  shall  detain  you  some  little  time,"  I  said, 
composedly.  "Are  we  secure  from  disturbance 
here  ?" 

The  brief  space  of  time  consumed  in  exchang- 
ing these  words  had  enabled  him  to  regain  his 
composure ;  and  now  witli  his  habitual  politeness 
and  with  less  hesitation  he  said,  "  Wh-whatever 
y-yom-  business  is,  Lady  Byfield,  it  gives  me  gen- 
uine pleasure  to  see  you  again  in  your  own  house. 
I  will  soon  secure  us  from  intrusion.  There 
now,  none  of  my  merry  guests  will  disturb  us." 

As  he  spoke  he  came  round  to  the  door  and 
barred  it ;  and  then,  bowing  to  me,  led  the  way 
to  the  sofa,  on  which  he  had  been  lying. 

"There,"  he  said,  "Lady  Byfield,  Vest  your- 
self on  that  sofa.  I  was  napping  on  it,  literally 
wearied  out  by  my  rout." 

I  sat  down  on  the  sofa  in  order  that  he  might 
be  seated ;  and  then  I  said,  "I  came  into  Picca- 
dilly at  ten  o'clock,  hoping  to  see  you  then  ;  but 
as  you  were  already  receiving  visitors  I  waited 
till  you  should  be  disengaged." 

' '  Th-thank  y-you ;  th-thank  y-you.  The  fact 
is,  such  an  aftair  as  to-night's  entertainment  is 
a  most  imusual  thing  with  me.  But,  owing  to 
Lady  Marshalhaven's  goodness  in  playing  the 
part  of  hostess,  it  has  gone  off  admirably." 

I  saw  that  he  had  pleasure  in  mentioning  to 
me  the  goodness  of  so  distinguished  and  exem- 
plary a  peeress  as  Lady  Marshalhaven. 

"B-but,"  he  added,  "  wh-what  gives  me  this 
unexpected  pleasure?" 

"I  wished  to  speak  to  you  about  Etty  Tree, 
Lord  Byfield,"  I  said. 

"  A-ay,  a-ay?"  he  exclaimed,  looking  at  me 
with  a  startled  expression. 

I  was  silent. 

"Il-have  y-you  heard  any  thing  of  her?" 

"  Don't  you  mean — '  Have  you  found  her  ?'  " 

"  S-surely,  e-exactly.  T-that  i-is  what  I 
mean." 

' '  I  want  to  know,  Lord  Byfield,  if  you  can 
tell  mo  any  thing  of  her." 

"I-I  t-told  }'0U,  years  since,  Lady  Byfield, 
that  I  knew  nothing  of  her." 

"Lord  Byfield,  if  it  were  possible  for  you  to 
speak  to  my  question  without  falsehood  or  eva- 
sion, you  would  say,  '  Three  days  after  she  dis- 
turbed you  in  Grosvenor  Square  I  caused  Sir 
Charles  Norton  to  sign  an  order,  committing  her 
to  confinement  as  a  lunatic  in  "Belle  Vue,"  Dr. 
Hankinson's  asylum  in  Berkshire — Dr.  Atkins 
and  Dr.  Teesdale  being  induced  by  my  misrep- 
resentations to  sign  a  certificate  of  her  mental 
insanity.  I  sent  her  to  "  Belle  Vue  ;"  and  there 
she  has  been  ever  since,  Dr.  Ilankinson  having 
received  from  me  £400  per  annum  for  keeping 
her  a  prisoner.  And  there  she  is  a  prisoner  at 
this  time.' " 

"  W-who  t-told  y-you  this  ?"  stammered  Lord 
Byfield. 

"Nevermind,  my  lord,"  I  answered,  "where 
I  acquired  my  information.  If  you  had  made 
me  the  answer  I  have  just  now  lypothetically 
placed  in  your  lips  the  statement  would  have 
been  erroneous  in  one  respect." 

He  started  up  again — and  again  sank  back 
into  his  chair. 

"Etty  Tree  is  not  in  confinement  in  'Belle 
Vue.'" 

A  deadly  pallor  came  over  his  face. 

"  Etty  Tree,"  I  continued,  speaking  very  slow- 


172 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOEK. 


ly,  "has  not  seen  flic  inside  of  'Belle  Vue'  for 
nearly  eight  years." 

"\V-\vhat!" 

"  A3',  my  lord,  won't  you  prosecute  Dr.  Han- 
kinsou  for  taking  your  £400  per  annum,  and 
playing  you  false?  Etty  Tree  has  been  my  guest 
at  Fulliam  for  more  than  seven  years  and  eleven 
months." 

' '  G-go  o-on,  th-that's  not  all. " 

"No,  it  is  not  all.  I  will  go  on;  but  first  I 
must  take  you  back  many  years,  to  the  time  when 
my  dear  father  was  alive.  (Jlay  he  not  in  heav- 
en have  looked  down  upon  the  sin  of  this  world !) 
I  must  go  back  to  the  time  when  he  and  your 
father  (an  honorable  man,  whose  only  sin  was  a 
mean  ambition)  were  closely  united  friends,  and 
first  conceived  the  plan  that  I,  a  little  girl  just 
five  years  old,  and  you,  a  promising  lad  at  col- 
lege, and  fifteen  years  my  senior,  should  event- 
ually marry,  and  unite  their  vast  fortunes.  You 
(j'outh  that  you  were)  were  from  the  outset  of 
j'our  life  acquainted  with  this  plan,  and  eagerly 
(with  that  inordinate  passion  for  money  which 
characterized  you  when  you  were  a  beardless 
youth  not  less  than  it  does  now)  embraced  an 
arrangement  which  would  eventually  give  you 
for  a  bride  the  richest  heiress  of  England.  For 
such  a  prize  you  were  ready  to  wait,  all  through 
the  long  years  of  youth,  till  you  married  ;  but  you 
were  not  ready  to  abstain  from  indulgence  in 
those  pleasures  which  are  sweetest  in  youth. 
There  was  your  difliculty.  For  you  knew  that 
my  father  would  never  let  his  child  be  the  wife 
of  a  libertine.  But  you  soon  devised  a  scheme 
for  indulging  your  love  of  money  and  love  of 
what  is  far  baser  than  money  at  the  same  time. 
You  were  traveling  in  Italy  with  your  school 
friend  AVatchit ;  and  in  Monaco  you  found  a  re- 
ti'eat  where  you  thought  you  could  commit  any 
sin  without  risk  of  detection.  At  Castellarc  you 
might  keep  your  mistresses  without  any  fear  of 
scandal,  beyond  the  circle  of  a  few  villages, 
never  visited  at  that  time  by  Englishmen.  You 
acted  on  this  plan,  which  the  ample  fortune  left 
you  by  your  grandfather,  and  the  additional  lib- 
erality of  your  father,  enabled  you  to  carry  out. 
You  fitted  up  a  retreat  at  Castellare,  you  enjoyed 
yourself  there,  visiting  it  periodically  in  your 
yacht.  But  whatever  deed  of  folly  or  shame  you 
perpetrated  it  was  under  the  disguise  of  your 
friend  Watchit's  name.  When  George  Watchit 
was  with  his  regiment  in  India  there  was  a 
George  Watchit  also  living  in  IMonaco — and  that 
George  Watchit  was  yourself. 

"Lord  By  field,  you  have  always  been  ])ersist- 
ent  in  your  undertakings  and  tenacious  of  your 
purposes.  The  course  that  yoir  began  as  a  mere 
boy  3'ou  persevered  in  till  the  very  time  that  you 
led  me  to  the  altar,  dishonoring  me  with  your 
vile  machinations.  Etty  Tree  was  i/our  victim 
at  Castcllai'c — and  the  last  of  a  series  of  victims. 
She  was  not  Sir  George  Watchit's  victim  !" 

I  paused  and  looked  at  him  as  he  sat,  fidget- 
ing his  fingers  and  stroking  his  long  hair. 

"  W-well,  w-well !"  he  stammered,  wishing  to 
know  «//,  and  fearful  of  conmiitting  himself. 

"  And  Etty  Tree  was  not  your  mistress — she 
was  your  wife!" 

Again  he  started,  and  a  Tuingled  expression 
of  fcar  and  diabolic  malevolence  crossed  his  face 
as  he  did  so. 

"You  tried  to  seduce  her  from  Laugliton  to 


be  your  7)i{stress.  But  you  could  not  succeed. 
So  you  offered  her  marriage,  saying  to  her, 
'You  shall  be  my  wife.  I  will  sacrifice  Olive 
Blake's  £450,000  to  my  love  of  you.  Only  our 
marriage  must  be  secret — and  kept  secret  till  my 
fathers  death.'  The  foolish  child  consented 
and  you  married  her.  Your  friend  Watchit  con- 
veyed her  to  a  city  you  told  her  was  London, 
and  took  her  to  a  church  which  you  told  her 
was  St.  Thomas's,  Kennington ;  and  in  that 
church  you  married  her.  But  the  town  to 
which  she  was  conveyed  was  Birmingham — not 
London  ;  and  the  church  in  which  the  marriage 
was  solemnized  was  St.  Dunstan's  in  Birnling- 
liam.  The  clergyman  who  performed  the  sei-v- 
ice  was  Mr.  Hobart ;  and  the  license  permitting 
the  marriage  was  made  out  for  a  marriage  be- 
tween Arthur  Fever  sham  and  Jeannette  Freeman. 
Mr.  Hobart  called  the  deluded  girl  Jeannette, 
doubtless ;  but  to  the  ear  and  the  tongue  of  a 
nervous  girl,  during  the  solemnization  of  her 
marriage,  Jeannette  and  Annette  are  names,  for 
all  practical  purposes,  identical ;  so  that  when 
j'ou,  Arthur,  promised  to  take  her,  Jeannette, 
and  she,  Annette,  promised  to  take  you,  Arthur, 
in  wedlock,  there  was  no  sufficient  difference  of 
sound  to  arouse  the  suspicions  either  of  her  or 
the  clergyman.  The  marriage  rites  over,  you 
signed  your  name  Arthur  Feversham  in  the 
register  in  such  a  manner  that  at  first  sight  the 
surname  looks  mo?-e  like  Petersham  than  Fever- 
sham.  So  she  saw  nothing  in  j'our  signature  to 
rouse  her  suspicions.  Then  the  female  witness 
signed  her  name ;  and,  lasily,  your  accomplice 
Watchit  took  the  pen  in  hand.  He  did  ,morc 
than  sign  his  assumed  name;  he  altered  Annette 
into  Jeannette,  and  Tree  into  Freeman.  The 
forgery  was  adroitly  managed.  No  single  stroke 
of  the  original  signature  was  obliterated ;  only 
additions  were  made.  The  forger  worked  skill- 
fully, and  with  a  sense  of  security ;  for  you 
had  sent  the  clerk  away  to  look  after  the  car- 
riages, and  you  also  engaged  the  aged  and  un- 
observant clergyman  in  conversation,  so  that 
no  eyes  might  be  upon  your  companion  in  crime. 
Then  you  left  the  church — you  in  the  cari-iage 
with  the  woman  who  signed  her  name  Ann 
Walker,  and  your  accomplice  in  the  carriage 
containing  the  woman  you  had  just  married ; 
you  taking  one  road  to  London,  and  Watchit 
bearing  off"  your  victim  by  another  road  to  Bris- 
tol— not  to  Dover." 

As  I  came  to  a  pause  the  man  rose  shaking 
in  cverj'  limb,  and  the  lips  of  his  bloodless  face 
having  scarce  power  enough  to  obey  his  will. 

"AY-what  w-witn-nesses  h-have  y-you  t-to 
th-this  m-mad  st-story?"  he  could  just  stammer 
out. 

"Sit  down,"  I  said,  quietly,  "and  I  will  tell 
you." 

lie  sat  down  obediently,  watching  me  intent- 
ly, as  if  he  wished  to  see  the  words  as  they  came 
from  my  lijjs. 

"You  may  well  ask  for  my  evidence.  Lord 
Byfield,"  I  continued.  "Mr.  Hobart,  the  cler- 
gyman, is  dead.  The  woman  who  signed  her 
name  Ann  Walker  is  dead.  Sir  George  Watch- 
it is  dead.  Your  victim  'Etty'  is  mad — proved 
mad  by  the  certificate  of  two  most  honorable 
l)hysicians.  You  want  my  evidence.  Why, 
num,  isn't  the  fact  of  my  telling  you  the  secret 
of  your  life's  crime  sufficient  evidence  against 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WOKK. 


173 


you?  Is  not  the  fact  of  your  anxiety  to  confine 
Annette  for  life,  as  a  lunatic,  sutlicicnt  evidence 
against  you?  Wliy  need  I  tell  you  that  wear- 
ing apparel  markeil  with  your  victim's  name, 
and  left  for  nigh  fifteen  years  in  the  'Warwick 
Arms,'  is  evidence  against  you?  that  your  glove 
dropped  in  the  church  during  the  ceremouy  is 
evidence  against  you  ?  that  the  best  '  experts'  of 
London  arc  ready  to  swear  that  the  Arthur  Fc- 
vershani  of  the  register  is  in  your  handwriting, 
and  to  be  evidence  against  you  ?  that  the  maid 
of  the  '  Warwick  Arms'  remembers  you  and  re- 
members your  victim  also?  that  witnesses  are 
read)'  to  come  from  Monaco  and  give  evidence, 
against  you  ?  Do  you  want  more  evidence  ?  It 
would  weary  me  to  tell  you  all  the  evidence  I 
have  against  you.  Let  me  finish.  Etty,  your 
wronged  wife  (and  no  viad  <jirl)  is  evidence 
against  you,  ready  to  j»]>eal  to  the  laws  for  pro- 
tection and  justice.  T(the  victim  of  you,  who 
arc  that  vulgar  criminal,  a  bigamist)  am  evi- 
dence against  you.  The  clerk  of  St.  Dunstan's 
chircU  is  evidence  against  you.  Mr.  Castleton 
t  jok  him  to  the  soiree  of  the  Royal  Society  a  few 
evenings  since.  You  spoke  to  Mr.  Castleton 
yourself.  The  man  walking  with  him  as  you 
did  so  was  the  clerk  of  St.  Dunstan's,  taken  to 
t'.iat  assembly  for  the  express  purpose  of  identi- 
fying you — as  a  felon  liable  to  the  punishment  of 
transportation  for  life  ! 

' '  Lord  By  field,  no  man  (however  rich  and  pow- 
erful he  fiiay  be)  should  play  the  rogue  who  has 
sach  a  brand  as  you  have  on  j'our  upper  lip,  and 
such  a  scar  as  you  have  on  the  back  of  your  neck !" 

I  ceased,  rising  as  I  brought  this  last  scornful 
st)i>ech  to  a  conclusion.  ■  Tlie  man,  too,  also  rose, 
sliaking  convulsively  in  every  limb.  In  anotlier 
in-tant  he  was  groveling  at  my  feet,  and  pluck- 
ing at  the  skirts  of  my  dress,  and  imploring  for 
ni  ;rcy.  "  O-oh,  m-mercy,  m-mercy.  B-be 
m-nurciful  in  yotu-  vengeance." 

"  Vengeance!"  I  cried.  "I  am  not  the  min- 
ister o{  I'engeance,  hnt  justice." 

■'O-Olive,  d-don't  expose  me.  A-any  thing, 
a-any  thing  you  will.  M-my  w-wealth  to  tlie 
hist  penny  of  it  is  yours ;  b-but  d-don't  expose 
nic!.  D-don't  g-give  the  extreme  punishment 
i:i  your  power.  B-by  tli-tlie  memory  of  our  fa- 
thers do  not  bring  the  world's  scorn  on  the 
liouse  of  Petersham  and  Blake.  I  crave  only 
safety  from  exposure.  O-oh,  d-don't  make  me 
a-a-a  fe-felon !" 

As  I  surveyed  the  sordid  creature  rolling  at 
my  feet,  and  imploring  to  be  preserved  from  the 
seorn  of  that  world  which  he  had  been  wont  to 
sjjc^ak  of  so  contemptuously,  and  which  it  had 
been  his  ambition  to  rule,  a  feeling  of  scorn 
(scorn  in  all  the  anguisli,  and  bitterness,  and 
fear  which  accompanies  that  hateful  emotion 
wlien  it  is  roused  to  its  fullest  intensity)  came 
(n-or  me,  and  for  a  few  seconds  I  could  scarce 
r<'ga!-d  him  as  of  human  kind.  And  then  it 
11  ished  upon  me  how  that  unclean  creature,  by 
practicing  on  the  worst  qualities  of  my  nature, 
had  for  a  brief  period  exercised  undisputed  dom- 
inance over  me,  and  I  fell  into  tlie  jtrofoundest 
dfpth  of  humiliation  and  self-abasement;  while 
a  still  small  voice  made  itself  heard  within  me, 
saying,  "Such  is  the  nature  of  evil.  It  works 
by  sympathy.  Olive  Blake,  that  loathsome  thing 
licking  the  dust  at  your  feet  is — Satan  incarn- 
ate .'" 


"Get  up  from  the  ground,  you  miserable 
thing!"  I  said.  "Don't  kneel  to  me.  Kneel 
to  (jod,  and  ask  his  pardon." 

Tliese  words  were  uttered  as  they  were  felt, 
not  scornfully,  but  solemnly  ;  and  they  had  such 
an  eti'ect  on  the  culprit  that  he  slowly  rose  from 
the  ground  and  seated  himself  again  on  his 
chair,  his  shoulders  drooping,  and  his  haggard 
face  hanging  forward. 

I  glanced  round,  and  saw  on  a  side-table  de- 
canters of  wine,  a  bowl  of  ice,  and  some  glass- 
es— doubtless  placed  tliere  for  the  especial  con- 
venience of  Lord  Byfield  when  he  might  retire 
during  the  evening  from  the  festivity  of  his  re- 
ception-rooms for  rest  and  refreshment  in  his  li- 
brary. 

I  went  to  the  table,  and  having  poured  out  a 
tumbler  of  wine  and  put  a  liberal  allowance  of 
broken  ice  in  it,  I  took  it  to  Lord  Byfield,  and 
said,  "Drinlf  that!"  He  looked  at  me  with 
surprise,  and  then  obeyed  me  mechanically. 

While  he  was  taking  the  iced  wine  I  went  to 
the  table  and  in  like  manner  refreshed  myself. 

"Are  3'ou  better?"  I  asked,  after  the  lapse  of 
a  couple  of  minutes,  returning,  as  I  spoke  the 
words,  to  his  side. 

"L-Lady  B-By — ,"  he  began  to  address  me. 

"Call  me  Miss  JSlake,"  1  said.  "Etty  is 
Lady  Byfield." 

"M-Miss  B-Blake,"  he  resumed,  looking  pit- 
eously  at  me,  "th-the  gl-glass  of  wine  you  gave 
me  is  an  earnest  that  you  will  s-spare  me." 

"Listen,  Arthur  Petersham!"  I  answered. 
"Reply  to  my  questions,  and  attend  to  every 
word  I  say." 

"I-I  w-will." 

"  Have  yoii  made  a  will  ?" 

"N-no!  n-no,"  he  replied,  the  tears  coming 
into  his  eyes.  "  I-I  h-have  n-never  cared  to 
make  a  will  s-since  I  destroyed  the  one  I  made 
in  the  second  year  of  our — " 

lie  paused. 

"I  understand,"  I  said,  "and  I  can  even 
thank  j^ou  for  pausing.  If  you  were  to  die  to- 
night, who  would  be  the  legal  inheritors  of  your 
property?" 

He  paused,  and  seemed  doubtful  what  reply 
to  make.  For  a  moment  I  thought  he  was  still 
bent  on  fighting  with  me,  even  in  his  humilia- 
tion not  despairing  of  securing  by  ailifice  an  ad- 
vantage for  himself.  But  tliis  suspicion  was 
jiroved  in  the  next  moment  to  be  erroneous, 
when  he  said,  "  Sh-slie  h-had  a  child." 

"Tiiat  child  is  alive,"  I  said.  "I  have  edu- 
cated him  for  many  years.  That  is  to  say,  I 
have  paid  for  his  education.  Now  answer  my 
questionr' 

"Il-he  a-and  Etty  would  be  legally  entitled 
to  all  my  possessions." 

"Exactly.  Now  attend  tome;  and  under- 
stand, Arthur  Petersham,  that  I  will  not  speak 
one  single  word — either  of  menace  or  promise — 
which  I  will  not  carry  out  literally !  You  have 
inflicted  on  me  the  greatest  wrong  that  man  can 
inflict  on  a  woman  ;  and  in  wronging  nte  you 
wronged  the  daughter  of  a  man  who  was  your 
father's  dearest  friend,  and  who,  moreover, 
evinced  his  strong  friendship  to  you  by  the  pro- 
visions of  his  will.  For  years  I  have  been  en- 
gaged on  the  task  of  tracking  out  your  guilt, 
and  I  have  succeeded.  I  hold  in  my  own  hands 
the  evidence  which  would  reduce  you  to  a  fcl- 


174 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


on's  ignominy,  and  consign  you  to  servitude  for 
life.  But  that  evidence  is  linown  only  to  tlirec 
persons  besides  myself — to  your  wife,  Mr.  Castle- 
ton,  and  Dr.  Clai'ges.  Your  wife,  in  gratitude 
to  me  for  the  services  I  have  rendered  her  in 
proving  the  fact  of  her  marriage,  will  be  guided 
in  her  conduct  implicitly  by  my  will.  Mr.  Cas- 
tleton  and  Dr.  Clarges  (two  men  whose  charac- 
ters you  are  familiar  with)  will  also  be  ruled  al- 
together by  my  wishes.  I  therefore  may  speak 
of  myself  as  holding  your  fate  in  my  hands. 
If  I  will  it,  you  are  a  felon,  liable  to  a  felon's 
punishment  for  the  rest  of  your  days.  If  I  )ier- 
mit  it,  you  may  continue  to  live  without  under- 
going tlie  extreme  of  ignominy.  I  told  you 
just  now  I  did  not  appear  as  the  minister  of 
voiffeance,  but  of  justice.  I  will  show  you  that 
my  words  were  strictly  true.  I  will  spare  you 
the  anguish  of  exposure  and  servile  degradation, 
and  I  will  even  maintain  you  in  the  possession 
of  dignity  and  moderate  affluence;  but  I  will 
only  show  you  such  mercy  on  certain  condi- 
tions." 

"N-name  th-them.  Miss  Blake,"  he  ex- 
claimed, with  a  voice  and  glance  of  intense  ex- 
citement. 

"Your  vast  property  consists  almost  entirely 
of  personal  estate,"  I  said. 

"  I-it  d-does." 

"You  have  sold  all  your  landed  properties 
with  the  exception  of  the  Hampshire  estate?" 

"B-Burstead  i-is  all  the  land  I  have,"  he 
answered. 

"  Now  attend." 

"I-Id-do." 

"Arthur  Petersham,  basely  as  you  have  treat- 
ed her,  j'ou  can  trust  to  the  honor  of  Olive 
Blake?" 

•'  I-I  c-can — and  her  mercy  too." 

"Her  honor  and  her  mercy  are  all  you  can 
trust  to  in  the  bargain  you  must  forthwith  make. 
If  you  will  forthwith  pay  over  to  my  friends, 
Mr.  Castleton  and  Dr.  Clarges,  every  farthing 
of  your  personal  estate,  whether  it  be  three  mill- 
ions or  six  millions  of  money,  to  hold  in  trust 
for  the  use  and  advantage  of  your  wife,  Lady 
Byfield,  known  in  my  house  as  Annette  Tree, 
and  of  her  son — at  ])resent  a  boarder  in  Dr. 
Renter's  boarding-school  at  Blackheath,  under 
the  name  of  Arthur  AVilliams  (the  exact  terms 
of  the  trust  to  be  fixed  by  myself),  I  will  leave 
you  in  possession  of  Burstead  House  and  the 
surrounding  estate,  and  I  will  give  you  my  word 
of  honor  that  as  long  as  you  live  and  never  ]>yc- 
sume  to  enter  the  House  of  Peers,  I  will  to  my 
utmost  shield  you  from  all  the  just  and  legal 
consequences  of  your  crimes  against  your  wife, 
against  me,  and  against  society.  This  is  my 
offer.  If  you  do  not  accept  it  before  to-morrow 
night  you  shall  be  apprehended  on  a  charge  of 
felony.     Do  you  accejtt  the  terms  ?" 

"  l-I  d-do.     Y-you  a-are  v-very  generous." 

"Then  to-morrow,  Arthur  Petersham,"  I  said, 
"  Air.  C'astleton  and  Dr.  Clarges  will  call  ujjon 
you  with  a  deed  which  (as  well  as  another  docu- 
ment) the  former  gentleman  has  already  caused 
to  be  prepared  at  my  directions.  Faitlifully 
render  to  them  an  account  of  all  your  personal 
estate,  and  jjay  every  farthing  of  it  over  to  them 
as  the  trustees  mentioned  in  the  deed,  and  on 
?«//  /loiio)-,  which  you  have  so  outraged,  you  shall 
not  (if  I  can  protect  you)  be  ever  molested  in 


this  world  for  your  wrong-doings.  But  mind, 
one  thing  more ;  if  you  in  any  way  fail  to  fulfill 
your  part  of  this  compact,  woe  upon  you !  If 
you  reserve  one  item  from  the  schedule  of  your 
personal  effects,  on  the  very  day  that  I  ascertain 
the  fact  of  such  dishonesty  you  will  be  criminal- 
ly indicted.  And  if  you  ever  again  vote,  or 
speak,  or  enter  the  House  of  Peers,  my  word  of 
honor  ceases  to  protect  yon." 

"I-I  a-am  gr-grateful." 

"One  thing  more,  Arthur  Petersham.  You 
had  better  not  leave  this  house  till  you  have  my 
permission  to  do  so." 

"  Wh-why,  wh-why  ?" 

"Because,"  I  answered,  "if  you  do,  my  spies 
will  be  on  your  track  and  subject  you  to  indigni- 
ty and  grave  risk." 

"And  now.  Lord  Byfield,"  I  added,  "ring 
the  bell  and  order  me  a  carriage,  for  I  must  re- 
turn to  Fulham."  • 

He  obeyed,  ringing  the  bell,  and  afterward 
unbarring  the  library  door,  so  as  to  afford  ad- 
mittance to  the  servant  answering  the  sum- 
mons. 

In  another  five  minutes  I  was  on  n>y  way 
home,  in  the  cool  dawn  of  a  summer's  day,  lying 
back  in  Lord  Byfield's  carriage,  to  which  he  had 
handed  me  with  countless  expressions  of  obse- 
quiousness and  gratitude. 

The  feature  of  the  man's  conduct  which  struck 
me  most  forcibly  was  his  manifestation  of  a  cra- 
ven fear  of  exposui'e.  To  lose  the  estimation 
of  that  society  which  he  had  so  outraged,  to  be 
spoken  of  with  scorn  by  that  society  for  which 
he  had  ever  expressed  a  lofty  contempt,  to  be 
deprived  of  that  rank  which  he  had  always  pro- 
fessed to  regard  only  as  a  toj',  were  anticipations 
so  overwhelmingly  horrible  that  the  loss  of  his 
coveted  millions  by  one  fell  stroke  was  compar- 
atively a  light  misfortune.  On  my  road  to  Ful- 
ham, reflecting  on  all  the  circumstances  of  my 
interview  with  my  betrayer,  I  was  well  pleased 
witli  the  recollection  of  this  exhibition  of  cow- 
ardice on  the  part  of  one  in  whom  moral  digni- 
t_y  and  principle  had  no  place.  Before  entering 
Petersham  House  I  had  said  to  myself,  "I  am 
now  going  to  drive  this  wicked  man  to  extrem- 
ities. What  if,  rendered  desperate  by  the  posi- 
tion into  v,-hieh  1  am  going  to  force  him,  he  should 
snap  his  fingers  in  contempt  at  the  opinion  of 
English  society,  and  fly  to  the  Continent  ere  I 
can  set  in  action  the  legal  forces  necessary  for 
his  capture  and  indictment?"  For  that  contin- 
gency I  was  not  altogether  unjjrepared,  though 
the  secrecy  which  it  Avas  my  grand  object  to 
maintain,  alike  as  to  my  wrong,  his  crime,  and 
my  measures  of  retribution,  had  necessitated  me 
to  adopt  a  line  of  action  which  would  have  found 
me  in  certain  respects  sorely  at  a  loss  how  to 
proceed,  if,  deriding  the  menace  of  exposure, 
the  wicked  man  had  gone  straight  off  to  the  sea- 
coast  and  fled  in  his  yacht  to  a  foreign  country, 
where  he  wouldhave  been  secure  from  the  reach 
of  British  laws,  and  whither  he  could  have  drawn 
after  him  the  greater  part  of  his  wealth.  But 
fortunately  "exposure"  and  social  "degrada- 
tion" were  the  two  punishments  which  of  all  oth- 
ers he  di'cadcd. 

I  had  him  therefore  securely  in  my  grasp,  and 
without  uneasiness  could  leave  him  unwatchcd. 

The  Lord  had  delivered  my  enemy  into  mine  ^ 
hands ! 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


175 


CHArTKll  XIIL 

THE  CLOSING  OF   "  PETERSHAM   AND  BLAKE." 

During  the  next  month  there  were  strange 
rumors  in  the  aristocratic  circles  of  English  so- 
ciety, consternation  in  "the  city"  of  London, 
and  iiurplcxity  in  the  monetary  cliques  of  foreign 
cajiirals.  At  a  time  wlien  it  liad  never  stood 
higher  in  the  estimation  of  the  world,  and  had 
never  enjoyed  greater  prosperity,  the  house  of 
"retersham  and  Blake  of  London,  Paris,  and 
Hamhurg,"  had  suddenly  and  most  mysterious- 
ly ceased  to  exist.  No  one  could  account  for  it. 
The  mighty  house,  which  Iiad  been  reared  by 
generations  of  retershams,  was  gone  ;  and  Lord 
Byfield  (the  last  of  the  long  line  of  Petershams), 
instead  of  appearing  before  the  world  and  ex- 
plaining the  considerations  which  had  induced 
him,  without  notice,  to  desert  negotiations  just 
entered  upon,  and  relinquish  undertakings  just 
approacliing  triumphant  consummation,  was  un- 
derstood to  be  living  in  strict  seclusion  at  Bur- 
stead  House,  in  Hampshire.  What  was  the 
cause  which  had  led  to  tliis  sudden  rui)turc  of 
commercial  connections,  old  and  new  ? — this  sud- 
den closing  of  vast  and  complicated  engage- 
ments ?  It  was  neither  poverty  nor  the  discour- 
agement of  a  season  of  unlucky  speculation. 
For  the  wealth  of  the  house  was  known  to  be 
prodigious,  and  for  years  past  every  thing  the 
house  had  touched  in  the  way  of  business  had 
turned  out  a  source  of  rich  revenue.  Moreover, 
the  two  partners  whom  Lord  Byfield  had  taken 
into  his  banking-house  since  his  father's  death, 
far  from  being  broken  men,  were  already,  with 
the  fullest  confidence  of  the  commercial  world, 
carrying  on  business  under  their  own  names — 
"Blades  and  Anderson."  What  had  these  gen- 
tlemen to  say  of  Lord  Byfield's  conduct  ?  How 
could  they  account  for  Lord  Byfield's  course  in 
suddenly  withdrawing  himself  from  monetary 
cii'cles,  and  removing  from  the  list  of  the  great 
banking-houses  of  London  the  honored  firm  of 
"  Petersham  and  Blake  ?"  They  could  give  no 
explanation  whatever.  All  they  could  say  was 
that  "Lord  Byfield  had  a  right  to  please  him- 
self." Their  connection  with  him  had  been 
one  of  business,  and  very  profitable  business ! 
They  had  never  ti'oubled  themselves  with  his 
lordship's  private  affairs ;  nor  had  the  public 
any  right  to  be  curious  about  them ;  for,  how- 
ever mystei'ious  his  lordship's  sudden  retirement 
from  business  might  be,  all  his  engagements 
with  the  public  would  be  honorably  fulfilled. 

So  the  world  talked  on,  and  gossijied  on,  and 
wondered  on,  till  it  was  tired.     But  at  the  close 
of  two  years  society  had  almost  forgotten  that 
sucli  a  person  as  Lord  Byfield  ever  lived,  when 
a  column  in  the  principal  daily  papers  announced 
]l     the  death  of  that  eminent  and  highly-respected 
ij    nobleman,  and  gave  a  sketch  of  his  career — his 
f     early  education  and  university  honors,  his  cn- 
j      thusiastic  devotion  to  the  science  and  art  of  bank- 
ing, his  political  engagements,  his  advancement 
to  the  peerage,  and  his  steady  perseverance  in 
commercial  undertakings  subsequent  to  his  ele- 
vation.    Overtasked  energies,  resulting  in  total 
nervous  prostration,  closely  bordering  on  mental 
disease,  had  comi)elled  the  noble  lord's  sudden 
retirement  from  business  just  two  years  since. 
In  the  hope  that  perfect  rest  would  enable  him 
to  recover  his  shattered  powers,  Lord  Byfield 


had  by  one  stroke  of  his  pen  put  an  end  to  his 
ancestral  relations  with  the  monetary  world  of 
Europe,  and  had  retired  to  Burstead  House  in 
Hampsiiire,  in  which  retreat  he  eventually  suc- 
cumbed before  the  advances  of  his  malady.  In 
tlieycar  18 —  Lord  Petersham  had  married  Olive, 
the  sole  daughter  and  wealthy  heiress  of  Mat- 
thew Blake,  Esquire,  tlio  partner  in  the  house 
of  "Petersham  and  Blake;"  but  that  marriage 
had  resulted  in  no  surviving  issue.  The  dis- 
position which  the  noble  lord  had  made  of  his 
property  could  not  of  course  be  known  at  pres- 
ent ;  but  as  he  left  no  heir  to  inherit  his  title,  in 
all  probability  the  legacies  left  out  of  his  enor- 
mous property  would  be  numerous.  Of  course 
the  title  of  Baron  Byfield  was  extinct. — Thus 
far  the  papers. 

There  was  fresh  amazement  when  it  was  dis- 
covered that,  instead  of  leaving  vast  wealth  be- 
hind him,  Lord  Byfield's  possessions  had  ere  the 
time  of  his  death  been  reduced  to  the  Burstead 
House  estate,  the  rental  of  which  was  hardly 
£5000  per  annum.  Nor  was  the  amazement 
lessened  by  the  fact  that  tliis  estate  was  left  en- 
tirely and  without  limitation  of  any  kind  to 
"  Ol'ive,  the  daughter  of  Matthew  Blake,  Es- 
quire, formerly  of  the  house  of  Petersham  and 
Blake,  and  of  Fulham  Villa,  in  the  county  of 
IMiddlesex." 

By  this  legacy,  which  was  on  his  part  perfect- 
ly voluntary.  Lord  Byfield  endeavored  to  render 
a  tardy  and  inadequate  atonement  to  his  friend's 
daughter  for  the  cruel  wrong  he  had  done  her. 

My  promise  to  Lord  Byfield  was  to  preserve 
his  secret  so  long  as  he  should  live.  His  death 
left  me  free  to  complete  my  imdertaking,  and 
clear  the  name  and  fame  of  Etty  and  her  son  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world  as  well  as  of  their  private 
friends.  My  task,  of  course,  was  not  left  un- 
finished. 

♦ 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

FAREWELL. 

A  FEW  particulars  yet  remain  to  be  told  that 
may  enable  the  reader  to  collect  the  threads  of 
the  strange  story  narrated  in  the  foregoing  pages. 

In  "Part  the  Fourth  of  Miss  Tabitha  Tree's 
Note-Book,"  it  is  told  or  shadowed  forth  how  I, 
under  my  name  of  Grace  Taftiple,'  kept  Mrs. 
Gower  under  my  surveillance  ;  how,  as  the  time 
approached,  when  I  saw  I  could  restore  her  sis- 
ter to  her  with  an  unsullied  rej)utation,  I  re- 
vealed the  fact  of  Arthur  Williams's  birth  to 
Julian  Gower;  how  I  induced  Julian  Gower 
(having  first  bound  him  to  maintain  a  temporary 
reserve  of  the  truth  from  his  wife)  to  introduce 
the  boy  to  "The  Cedars,"  and  how,  soon  after 
the  boy's  return  to  Blackheath,  on  the  termina- 
tion of  the  Mid-summer  holidays,  I  took  Mrs. 
Gower  with  me  to  Fulham  Villa  (she  being  still 
ignorant  of  my  real  name  and  character),  and 
enabled  her  to  witness  tlie  first  meeting  of  Julian 
and  Etty  after  nearly  seyentcen  years  of  sejjara- 
tion,  and  nearly  fifteen  years  after  her  flight 
from  Laughtcm"  It  is  also  told  how,  when  I 
asked  her,  if  she  still  l>e]ieved  in  her  husband's 
steadfast  love,  the  noble  little  creature,  even  in 
her  agony  of  doubt,  exclaimed,  "He  is  unutter- 
ably, unalterably  good!" 

It  may  be  asked  tc/ii/  I  gave  that  gentle.  Chris- 
tian Nvoman  needless  pain?    Reader,  have  you 


176 


OLIVE  BLAKE'S  GOOD  WORK. 


never  known  the  i)leasnve  of  trying  the  utmost 
speed  of  a  liorsc — the  utmost  to  wliii'li  yon  may 
bend  tlie  lithe  firm  steel  of  a  fencing  foil — tlie 
utmost  to  which  yon  may  tax  your  own  powers 
of  endurance — the  utmost  at  which  you  may  rate 
the  excellence  of  any  tiling  that  you  cordially 
admire?  Even  as  you  liavc  made  such  trials  as 
these,  so  did  I  make  trial  of  Tibl)y's  love  and 
confidence  in  her  grand,  heroic  husband.  I 
(jloried  in  them !  /  knew  they  would  endure 
any  thing,  and  I  wished  to  justify  my  conviction, 
so  that  I  might  yet  the  more  believe  in  the  great 
articles  of  my  life's  creed — the  possibility  of  the 
loftiest  conceivable  ideal  of  human  life  being  car- 
ried out  in  this  actual  world.  I  knew  that  I 
could  do  no  harm  to  such  a  woman  as  Tibhy — 
that  it  was  impossible  in  any  way  whatever  to 
demoralize  her.  I  was  as  sure  of  it  as  that  I 
walked  and  breathed,  and  took  notes  of  man's 
and  nature's  works.  I  knew,  too,  that  just  in 
proportion  to  the  sharpness  of  the  preceding  trial 
would  be  the  gladness  of  the  triumph  in  whicii 
that  trial  was  to  close. 

Such  is  my  apology. 

Let  me  say  something  more  of  Tibby,  which 
all  who  have  made  her  acquaintance  in  these 
pages  will  be  glad  to  hear.  God  granted  her 
desire !     Within  a  twelvemonth  of  the  day  in 


whicli  she  locked  her  sister  Etty  in  her  embrace 
(covering  her  with  kisses  and  tears  of  love)  she 
])rcsented  Julian  with  a  daughter,  and  when  the 
year  came  round  again  she  presented  him  with 
a  son.  And  verily  those  children  are  "like  as 
arrows  in  the  hand  of  a  giant !" 

On  the  first  anniversary  of  "little  Julian's" 
Ijirlhday  I  dined  at  "The  Cedars"  with  Mrs. 
retersham  (I  need  not  say  that  Etty  never  used 
the  title  of  Lady  Byfield),  her  sj)lcndid  boy  Ar- 
thur (foremost  just  then  among  the  gallant  lads 
of  Harrow),  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gurley  of  Laughton, 
Dr.  Clarges,  and  Mr.  Castleton. 

Our  host  and  hostess,  as  usual,  made  me  feel 
that  I  was  an  especial  object  of  their  love. 

"  Oil,  Tibby,"  I  said  after  dinner,  as  we  ladies 
were  in  the  drawing-room,  and  Mrs.  Gower  had 
her  beautiful  children  in  her  arms,  almost  buried 
under  them,  "how  gloriously  hajipy  you  seem 
now !  In  the  long-run,  good  fortune  does  come 
to  those  who  deserve  it." 

"My  happiness,"  answered  Tibby,  putting  her 
little  girl  down  and  raising  herself  on  her  sofa  to 
look  at  me,  "is  your  work.  Yes,  dear  Olive, 
by  God's  assistance  j-ou  did  that,  without  which 
it  could  never  have  been  complete.  Yes,  dear 
0/we  Blake,  my  great  and  perfect  happiness  is  a 
consequence  of  your  Good  Work." 


BOOK    IX. 

BEING  A  LETTER,  WRITTEN  ON  OCTOBER  THE  — TH,  1861,  AS 
A  POSTSCRIPT  TO  THE  FOREGOING  EIGHT  BOOKS.— BY  AN- 
NETTE PETERSHAM. 


TO  THE  PUBLIC. 

Tup.  Cottage,  Laughton,  October,  ISGI. 

Soon  after  the  last  of  the  occurrences  nar- 
rated in  the  preceding  pages,  my  dear  sister,  and 
her  husband,  and  my  beloved  friend  Olive  Blake, 
at  m!/  request  wrote  the  eight  books  which  contain 
the  sad  story  of  my  wickedness  iu  early  life,  and 
the  suffering  it  drew — not  only  on  myself,  but 
on  all  I  hold  most  dear  to  my  heart.  At  the 
time  tlie  ei'jht  i^oks  were  penned  at  my  request 
they  were  intended  for  jiublication  ;  for  in  all 
humility  I  deemed  that  the  plain  narrative  of  my 
sin  and  its  punishment  might  deter  foolisli  girls 
from  treading  upon  the  edge  of  error,  and  so 
might  be  serviceable  in  the  cause  of  morality. 

When,  however,  tlie  hooks  were  written,  my 
dear  sister  had  an  invincible  repugnance  to  the 
thought  of  their  publication.  She  did  not  state 
her  motives,  but  it  was  easy  for  me  to  discern 
and  appreciate  them.  Her  deep  affection  for  me, 
and  the  genuine  modesty  of  her  unobtrusive  piety, 
were  reasons  which  made  her  wish  that  the  deeds 
of  her  rare  goodness  and  my  utter  unworthiness 
should  not  be  permanently  recorded.  We  dis- 
cussed the  question  of  publication  frequently, 
and  finally  she  consented  that  tliey  should  be 
published  after  her  death. 

At  the  close  of  last  year  my  dear  sister  (after 
having  seen  her  son  and  daughter  grow  up  to 
imitate  the  goodness  of  their  parents)  died  at 


"The  Cedars,"  Highgate,  leaving  to  her  hus- 
band, and  to  all  who  came  within  the  circle  of 
her  influence,  the  edifying  memory  of  her  virtues. 
She  was  interred  in  Highgate  Cemetery,  near 
the  spot  where  the  memorial  she  erected  in  love 
of  her  erring  sister  still  stands.  On  leaving  her 
grave  I  was  resolved  to  publish  the  books  forth- 
with, deeming  that  their  publication  would  be 
tlie  best  tribute  of  respect  and  affection  I  cuuld 
pay  to  her. 

The  alterations  made  in  the  memoirs,  as  they 
were  left  by  their  writers,  are  for  tlie  chief  part 
those  of  date  (which  have  been  introduced  to 
make  tlic  entire  story  read  as  if  it  were  written 
in  the  present  j^ear).  Certain  additions  have 
also  been  made  to  my  dear  sister's  books  by  Mr. 
Jeaftreson,  at  my  request  and  sometimes  at  my 
dictation.  My  dear  sister  had  failed  to  paint 
my  misconduct,  and  her  sufferings  and  labors, 
iii"sufliciently  strong  and  vivid  terms.  ]\Ir.  Jeaf- 
frcson  and  I  have  therefore  (with  the  approval 
of  my  dear  son)  endeavored  to  su])ply  the  defi- 
ciencies of  her  manuscript. 

If  it  should  be  deemed  by  any  readers  that 
the  foregoing  pages  do  not  condemn  my  evil  be- 
havior with  sufficient  severity,  I  beg  them_  to 
know  that  my  conscience  does  without  ceasing 
that  which  tender  love  of  me  prevented  my  dear 
sister,  and  Julian  Gower,  and  Olive  Blake  from 
doing. 

Annette  Pistersham, 


TUB  END. 


I 


14  DAY  USE 

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